


A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

by Le_Rouret



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarilion
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Modern Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 42
Words: 150,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thousands have years have passed since the Ring War, but the Valar still keep an eye on the world ... and they use tried-and-true "specialists" to keep mankind's evil from going too far. When a young and idealistic interior designer falls for a tall and handsome stranger whose friends call him "Faramir," he doesn't know how deep and dangerous the liaison will become ... until it's too late to escape, and one of the world's most populous nations is in danger of being wiped off the globe by a biological weapon.</p><p>Set in the early Oughts, follows "Pottymouth" but does not have to be read in concert with it. *COMPLETE*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Professor White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheraiah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/gifts).



**Professor White**

 

     Michael's romance with Francis proceeded along fairly unconventional lines, at least as far as he was concerned. 

     Michael had Come Out in high school during the AIDS scare, and had managed to work through the wild-oats-sowing stage of his late teens in the safest manner possible, always being careful to use condoms and to keep away from high-risk lovers.  During that stage, he played the field – almost anyone would do, really – and in his self-assured belief that everyone was equal, everyone treated him equally as well, so that any special qualities he believed he possessed were squashed and stunted by the repeated relationship failures. 

     By the time he'd gone to college, he'd grown out of such hedonism and begun instead an earnest search for The One.  He was sure that The One was out there – after all, people were like shoes; everyone had a mate, right?  So he set out into the gay dating scene, confident his mate was out there – someone to coddle him and care for him, someone strong, someone dominant, someone beautiful.

     Unfortunately, he had a disturbing predilection for attracting Alpha Males, despite his desire for permanence and security. It was strange, but psychologically consistent perhaps, that he constantly pursued men like his father.  His old therapist had told him this was normal and to be expected and there was nothing wrong with it. However, his sister Pauline finally put her foot down, and told him his therapist was only feeding his crises and making things worse, and as she usually knew better than he, he'd ditched the therapist and tried to muddle on through his life on his own.

     It wasn't that bad, really; he was fairly cautious about his peccadilloes and remained disease-free into his twenties.  When he graduated college with a degree in Interior Design (much to his father's disgust, who had wanted him to go Pre-Law), he took a job at a home decorating store in the mall in downtown San Diego and proceeded to build up his clientele, make friends with his coworkers, and bungle every relationship he entered.

            Every time Michael dated someone he looked for the same thing:  Love.  Every man he dated wanted the same thing:  Sex.  Well, his dates got what they wanted (though not in the frequency they desired, which was why they broke away so quickly), but Michael never got what he wanted – not until Mr. Steward, wandering through the store looking for a new sofa, came face to face with Michael and was struck dumb.

            It had been gratifying to see this tall handsome man, pale eyes filled with a sort of agonized astonishment, stammer out his request for help with his living room.  Michael, blushing becomingly, had put a demure face over his growing excitement, and soon the two were discussing color and texture and placement and tone quite calmly, though the tension shivered behind every phrase and surreptitious glance.  The sofa was duly ordered and the man left, looking backwards over his shoulder at Michael as he did so.

     After all, who could blame him?  Michael was a beautiful young man, as he well knew; pale-skinned and fair-haired and blue-eyed, and his efforts to stay beautiful – hairdressers, toiletries, a membership at a gym – paid off in spades.  So when the sofa came in and Michael called Mr. Steward to arrange delivery, it was only natural Mr. Steward would ask if Michael could be there to oversee its placement, and to advise him on any further decorating work to be done in his condo, and only natural for Michael to capitulate with mounting enthusiasm.

When he'd put down the phone he'd given a squeal of delight, and his coworker Cindy had asked what was up; Michael had responded, "I've got another Alpha Male!"  She'd rolled her eyes, knowing what that would mean – months of Michael's gushing accolades, followed by heartbreak and reddened eyes and weak assertions of future celibacy. 

            But this had been subtly different.  For starters, Mr. Steward (who immediately asked if Michael would call him Francis) did not initiate any sexual activity at all.  Michael had gone to his home, paced the rooms and made suggestions, which Francis had dutifully noted; they put their heads together and made a Plan, then arranged a time to get together to pick out colors and fabrics and accessories.  And then – nothing.  No suggestion they go out to a club, no innuendo, not even an offered beverage; for twenty-four hours Michael assumed he'd been mistaken, and Francis wasn't interested after all. 

            He was crushed – this particular Alpha had been so handsome, so dark and mysterious and controlled and quiet; he was so compelling – Cindy's eyes got a rolling-workout the next day – but when Francis came in to look over the fabric books, he'd asked Michael, diffidently, stiffly, as though he were afraid of rejection, if Michael wouldn't mind having dinner with him that night.

            Of course Michael accepted, because he could just Feel Francis was Different; he wouldn't be like all the others, he'd be The One.  So after a hurried shower and toiletry jamboree in the bathroom of his tiny apartment, he packed extra condoms and lube packets in his wallet and took a cab down to the Soho Café to meet his doom.

            The condoms had not been necessary, much to Michael's combined disappointment and curiosity.  Francis was obviously attracted to him, but was exercising extreme caution to the point of hesitation.  At times Michael would surprise a look of raw yearning in his companion's eyes, but as soon as Michael's face would light up with recognition, the shutters of Francis' soul would close, and the cool, aloof man would turn away. 

            This went on for several months – visits to the store to check on orders or to choose accessories or colors; lunches at the cheaper restaurants in the mall (though Francis always refused to go Dutch), dinners at extremely expensive restaurants downtown or at the waterfront (Michael could not possibly have afforded even the appetizers, but Francis insisted upon paying for everything), but that was all – no clubbing, no lingering kisses at the door when Francis dropped him off in his Lexus at Michael's apartment and walked him in; and surprisingly enough, no sex. 

            At last Michael came to a startling realization:  Francis wasn't "dating" him – he was being courted!  This was a new concept for him and he puzzled over it for a while, not sure whether to be disappointed or flattered.  At last he realized he was both, and when he talked to Pauline about it she told him he might actually have hit the jackpot, and to take it slow.

            So Michael, being Michael, after sincerely promising himself he'd take it slow, kissed Francis on the mouth at the end of their next date, and to his gratification Francis kissed him back.  It was a hard, insistent, dominating kiss, with strong hands holding his head still and an adamant questing tongue invading his mouth.  Feeling a thrill of excitement Michael had responded, pressing his smaller body against the other man's and hoping Tonight Was The Night.  But after several minutes of hoarse breathing and clashing teeth, Francis withdrew, gray eyes dark with desire but clouded with doubt and fear; he had apologized curtly to Michael and walked quickly away, leaving Michael panting and frustrated.

            Two days went by in which he didn't see or hear from Francis at all, and Michael spent hours in agonized self-recrimination for his weakness.  But then to his delight Francis came in, and after a few moments of casual conversation took Michael by the hand, fixed him with that intense regard and asked if he would have dinner with him that night … at his condo.

            It was at that point the relationship seemed to change, to deepen and darken.  Dinner followed aperitifs, dessert followed dinner, digestifs followed dessert, and the inevitable ended the evening.  Francis turned out to be a skilled and passionate lover on top of being a splendid cook and obsessive neat-freak, and when Michael attempted after a polite interval to get out of bed to go home, the strong brown arm held him firmly down onto the mattress, and the Alpha Male attached to it kissed the objections out of Michael and went for another round.  After that Michael felt rather disinclined to leave and went to work the next day in his dirty rumpled suit, still shimmering from their early-morning exertions.

            All of Michael's friends – and Michael himself – were braced for several months of Wonderfulness followed by the inescapable Break Up, but it didn't happen.  The sex was wonderful, the gifts were wonderful, the conversations were stilted but wonderful – Michael was discovering Francis didn't open up no matter how long they were together; he was very mysterious and reticent, brushing off veiled questions and bluntly refusing to answer forthright ones. Soon Francis rather shortly suggested Michael move in with him, it being more convenient for them both, as most of his clothes were in Francis' closet anyway.  Relishing the thought of some permanence and stability at last – as well as the opportunity to save some money, which he could never do while paying rent – Michael delightedly agreed, and soon they were officially Together.

            Everything was perfect – until they ran into that old don after the Bower House Mozart Musicale. 

            Francis had brought him, polite and attentive as usual, dressed immaculately in his dark expensive suit, his black hair slicked back, his red tie subtle and elegant.  Michael had discovered early on that Francis was a perfectionist from his food to his clothes to his lovemaking. He had purchased a new suit for his young lover, custom made at Neiman-Marcus, and horribly expensive; it was more sub-fusc than the clothing Michael was accustomed to wear but Francis would brook no refusal, and as he paid the bills Michael meekly acquiesced. 

     That was the way the relationship worked, after all:  Francis was the Alpha Male, and Michael his mate.  At times Michael, in an excess of frustration over his boyfriend's anal-retentiveness, would call Pauline and dump his dissatisfaction on her, but wise woman that she was, she would remind him that he liked being cared for, he was the Sensitive One, he was the Yin to Francis' Yang, the submissive half of a balanced relationship, and Michael would sigh and agree.  After all, he couldn't deny it was very nice to be so well taken care of – and the suit fit like a dream, and made him look so refined and chic and expensive. There _was_ a guiltily thrilling stigma to being arm-candy, after all.  He could put up with Francis' cool dark moodiness because he knew his lover would more than make up for it in the bedroom.

            Michael had always averred he disliked Classical music, but Francis dragged him to all the concerts he could, and disdained the clubs. Michael went along with it, complaining good-naturedly and teasing Francis into tolerably good humor. In place of the flashing lights and obvious bump-and-grind of the nightclubs were the subtly groping fingers, the knees pressed together, the light kisses on fingertips in the forgiving dark, while the aching dulcet music pulsed around them.  

After a while, Michael grew to love it, especially the more he learned about the composers and their lives.  Besides, it was a pleasure just being with Francis, looking up at his dark profile beside him, pale eyes hooded and reflective, normally severe face relaxed. He was beautiful, Michael thought; sober and quiet and conscientious and always a little sad.  He would slip his fingers into Francis' strong brown hand, and Francis would squeeze them, and glance down at him, eyes softening, lips curving into a crooked smile.

            The reception after the concert was fairly typical of its kind.  There were the musicians (all volunteers), and the conductor (on loan from one of the local Arts colleges), and the patrons (dressed in garish finery and talking loudly about cars and horses and endowments), and the staff (members of the Historical Society, handing round champagne), and the audience members – benefactors, Liberal Arts professors, music teachers, sponsors, music-lovers, bored teenagers and their parents, bohemians, and the occasional homosexual couple interested in the Arts, like Michael and Francis. 

            Francis was carrying on an impassioned discussion with one of the patrons about the pipe organ in the hall, and Michael, who wasn't interested in organs of that particular variety, was letting his mind and his eyes wander.  He was looking at the clothes, and admiring the Bower House's refurbishments, and wishing he could meet some of the architects that had been involved in it, when he felt eyes on him, and he turned around, looking for whomever was staring at him.

            The old man was respectably but untidily dressed, with his disheveled hair and beard, and a rumpled and stained suit.  He had a pipe in one hand, from which a wisp of blue smoke drifted lazily out; he was leaning against the massive marble mantle and looking directly at Michael, his black eyes twinkling, as though he and Michael shared a joke that no one else understood.  He looked jolly, grandfatherly, wise; Michael smiled back, and the old man jerked his head, indicating Michael should join him.  Excusing himself to Francis and the patron, who hadn't even noticed the old man, Michael wound his way through the crush, careful not to spill his champagne, until he too was at the fireplace, smiling up at his companion.

            "Kind of crowded in here, isn't it?" he said, to start the conversation.

            "Rather," said the old man, taking a puff on his pipe and letting his eyes wander over the assembly.  "All these people who want to look intellectual and refined, and haven't the slightest idea the implications of what they have just heard, or where they are standing.  All they care about is who sees them."  His voice was ironic, yet not cruelly so, and immediately reminded Michael of old episodes of Masterpiece Theater – the accent was so similar to what he'd heard on that program. 

            "He's English," thought Michael, pleased; he collected Interesting People, and this old man looked like a prime sample of the species.

            "Honestly I don't understand what I heard either," he admitted with his disarming frankness, "though I appreciate the Bower House – it's marvelous, isn't it, the way they've restored it so perfectly?  I saw the blueprints and the original photos – it was such a shame what that other family had done to it, I'm sure the house is ever so much happier now it's been returned to its original state."

            "Do you think so?" asked the old man, pursing his lips and blowing out a smoke ring absently.  "I rather think it would like the change, but then I'm reflecting further back, when it was a tavern and not a residence."

            "Oh, that wouldn't work at _all_ ," said Michael, waving his hand dismissively.  "After all the renovative work in the nineteenth century?  You'd destroy half the building that way.  No, this was much, _much_ better."

            "A suitable compromise, you mean?  Tawdry age gives way to blushing youth – yes, I can see that would appeal to you."  He sucked on his pipe again, making a little popping noise.  Michael colored.

            "I didn't mean _that_ ," he said.  "I only meant the beauty of the original change – from the tavern to the residence – it was an improvement, don't you think?  After all, it gave a family somewhere to live and love and have a home."

            "Yes, but think of all those poor lost drunkards wanting their whiskey."

            Michael was shocked, but then the old man winked, and he laughed.

            "I didn't think of it like that," he admitted, taking a sip of his champagne.  He paused, recognizing the pattern of the conversation; now it was time for the old man to either change the subject or introduce himself.

            "So you didn't like the music?  Pity."

            "I didn't say I didn’t _like_ it," said Michael pertly, "only that I didn't _understand_ it.  Frankly I wouldn't be here at _all_ if Francis didn't insist.  I'm more the night clubbing type."

            "With your appreciation of aesthetics and home life?  I'm surprised."

            "Well, obviously this music is _better_ ," Michael conceded, rolling his eyes.  "But I've never been exposed to it before.  This is all so new to me.  Francis is marvelous, he takes such good care of me, and he's so clever."  He giggled; the champagne was making him a little tiddly.  The old man smiled around his pipe.

            "Yes … Francis.  That would be Francis Steward over there, correct?"  He took the pipe out of his mouth and gestured towards Francis' slim elegant back with it.  Michael nodded.

            "Yes," he said.  "Isn't he gorgeous?  I just love that tall dark and handsome type.  I could gaze at him for _hours_."

            The old man didn't reply, but smiled, his eyes thoughtful, staring at Francis' back.  Michael watched him, suddenly curious.  The shabby tweed coat was covered in a fine haze of pipe ash, the shirt wrinkled and tie crooked, but the tie pin looked like a large ruby set in gold, and there was an ornate ruby ring on his wrinkled, tobacco-stained fingers.  Whatever this odd old man was, he was anything but poor, and by his conversation he'd also shown himself to be astute and amusing as well. 

            "How do you know Francis?" he asked after a minute.

            "When you're as old as I, you become acquainted with a lot of people," said the old man vaguely, knocking the ashes out of his pipe into the hearth.  "I need to speak with him.  Do you mind?"

            "No, of course, not," said Michael, his curiosity afire.  "How long have you known him?"

            "Since he was a youth," said the old man.  He pushed himself off the mantle and started to make his way through the crowd. 

            Michael noticed he didn't move like an old man; his steps were sure and his back straight.  He looked very strong and wiry.  Perhaps he wasn't as old as he appeared – he wasn't even using his cane, just swinging it beside him negligently. 

            When they approached Francis, Michael stepped up his pace.  He wanted to get to Francis' side before the old man, just in case – though the gentleman didn't look to be That Type, you never knew sometimes.  He sidled up to Francis, who looked as though he had just concluded his organ conversation, and gave him a quick, surreptitious kiss on the rough wool shoulder.  Francis didn't like public displays of affection, and had asked Michael on many occasions to control himself.  It was difficult, but Michael tried, just to please him.

            "Hello, Beautiful," he whispered up into Francis' ear.  Francis turned to him with a warm smile, his eyes soft; then he saw the old man and he stiffened.  His face seemed to clench, and his eyes became wary.  Michael could see the echo of alarm and something else – shame? – cloud over his face, and Michael felt the first twinge of apprehension as the old man walked up, smiling benignly, hand outstretched.

            "Dr. Steward," he said.

            "Professor White," replied Francis politely; he hesitated, then shook the old man's hand.  Michael blinked in surprise – _Doctor_ Steward?  But Francis was a computer programmer!  Francis glanced down at Michael, cleared his throat and said with studied care:  "You've met Michael?"

            Michael opened his mouth to say "No," but the old man, Professor White, just smiled again and said, "Yes.  Charming fellow."  He looked at Michael, black eyes twinkling mischievously.  "Living together, aren't you?  In that condo on Mimosa Street?''

            He looked back at Francis, who had gone pale. Though Francis was obviously struggling to keep his face expressionless, a little fear seeped out, like oil round a faulty seal.  Michael looked at Professor White.  His face was still cheerful, but it lacked a little of its open friendliness he'd seen before, in their conversation by the mantle.  Did he disapprove of Francis living with Michael?  Why?  He opened his mouth to ask but Francis nudged him with his elbow, and recognizing the warning Michael snapped his mouth shut.

            "Yes," said Francis shortly.  He watched Professor White, who watched him right back; there seemed to be some sort of challenge in the old black eyes.  After a moment Francis' gaze faltered, and he glanced away, across the room.  "I'd forgotten you liked Mozart."

            Professor White smiled, the benevolent expression firmly fixed.  "Yes.  Splendid. Jolly good show."  There was an awkward silence between those three; Michael noticed that Francis wouldn't meet the Professor's eye, but stared determinedly at some spot on the floor.  "Well, then," said the old man after a moment, straightening his shabby tweed coat and smiling warmly at Michael.  "Be seeing you … Faramir."  He waved casually with one hand, and disappeared into the crowd.  Michael saw the top of his untidy white head bobbing and dodging folk, and then he was gone.

 


	2. The Home Invasion

**The Home Invasion**

            Francis proved himself to be even more reticent than usual on the ride home. Michael tried to sound casual when he asked his probing questions about Professor White and Francis' title of Doctor, but the curt replies and narrowed sidelong glances informed him that this was one of those things that was Not Discussed.

            There were only two kinds of subjects when it came to conversation with Francis; those that were Discussed and those that were Not Discussed, and apparently Professor White was one of those that fell into the latter category. Michael knew better enough after six months with Francis to try to press him. He had never heard his boyfriend raise his voice, but there was an intensely controlled fury in him that terrified Michael, and he did all he could to avoid invoking it. To be sure, it surfaced rarely, and only when Michael failed to recognize the Not Discussed topics. He was getting better at it though, and fell into reflective silence, his hands absently tracing the familiar patterns in the leather seats of Francis' Lexus. After ten minutes of stony silence, Michael tried a different subject.

            "The concert was wonderful anyway," he said. He tried to say it cheerfully, but his chagrin at Francis' sudden emotional retreat colored his voice and it sounded more wistful and apologetic.

            With an inarticulate sound, Francis abruptly pulled over onto the shoulder, scattering dust and gravel, the tires squealing. He threw the car into park and embraced Michael roughly, pressing the young man's body into his own so that they both strained against the restricting seat belts. Someone honked as they passed, and Michael, torn between relief and fear, put his arms around Francis' neck.

            "I'm so sorry, Michael. I'm a pig." Francis' voice was rough, and Michael could feel his lips moving against his neck, above the stiff suit collar.

            Michael's heart melted. "You're not a pig," he said, stroking his lover's hair soothingly. "You're just a little tired, you know; you work so hard – "

            "Stop making excuses for me." Francis pulled away, his hands on either side of Michael's face, tipping it up towards his own. He looked down at Michael, his pale eyes searching, agitated and broken. Michael's heartbeats quickened – Francis was so beautiful – so intense and broody and male – he could drown in those gray eyes. "I'm a pig to treat you like this. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

            "It's okay, Francis," said Michael, his eyes filling with tears. Francis was so earnest, so passionate! Would he ever get tired of this man? More to the point, would this man ever tire of him? Oh please no no no, Michael begged the sky; please keep me perfect so Francis will never leave me … it was too much to ask the heavens to make Francis _love_ him; Michael had a feeling that would never happen. But so long as Michael was perfect, Francis would be there to take care of him and order his life for him, and they could continue on in their perfection together.

            "You're allowed to get upset. I get upset and you never seem to mind _me_. Why should I mind it in you?" Michael reached up one hand and lightly touched Francis' face; he could feel his lover's fingers start to tremble. "It's just a part of learning how to live with each other," he whispered, leaning forward against the protests of his seat belt.

            Francis leaned forward too, and they kissed, slowly, ardently, Francis' hands caressing Michael's face, Michael's fingers in Francis' hair. Another car went by honking its horn derisively, and Francis pulled away, his eyes soft and reluctant.

            "Let's go home," he said, smiling and putting his hands back on the steering wheel. He glanced sideways at Michael, and there was a look in his eyes that was starting to become deliciously familiar. Michael smiled and leaned back against the seat, his whole body tingling with anticipation and flushed with happiness.

 

************************

 

            Two bottles of wine and some rather athletic lovemaking later, they fell deeply asleep, limbs entwined. After a while, the liquids he'd ingested started nudging against Michael's consciousness, asking to be let out. He dragged himself back up to the surface, blinking sluggishly. He was so comfortable lying with his arm and leg draped over Francis' body, hearing him breathe slow and sonorous against the pillow.

            Michael turned his head. The streetlamp outside threw four rectangles of white light across their big plush bed; one of those rectangles fell over Francis' sleeping face. Michael watched him adoringly, watched the black thick lashes brushing his cheekbones, watched the noble aquiline nose, the curving brows, the high forehead, the tousled glossy black hair. At last Michael's bladder won the argument with his ardor, and he crawled out of bed to the bathroom.

            He was careful afterwards to lower the seat before he flushed, and to straighten the hand towels after he washed and dried his hands – Francis didn't complain, but Michael knew he liked things to be Just So, and indulged him happily, even though his only reward was a lack of Disapproving Glance. He walked softly back into the darkness of the bedroom, flinching a little at the cold tile beneath his bare feet and happily anticipating the soft cushy warmth of the bed. He was halfway beneath the covers when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something large and unfamiliar and white. He turned, and his heart froze.

            There was someone sitting on the dresser.

Michael could see the definite outline of a man, tall and slim, with long white hair, swinging booted feet over the edge of the Danish Modern chest of drawers Michael had ordered for Francis early in their relationship. And though the man's face was occluded by the darkness, Michael saw the glint of a pair of eyes, watching him.

            His fear paralyzed him, seized up his throat. He wanted to scream, to wake Francis, to warn him before this man pulled out a knife or a gun or something and killed them both. But the glittering eyes held him in thrall, like a snake paralyzes a bird. Michael could only stare, dumbfounded, terrified, positive his short beautiful life was at an end; he couldn't even tremble he was so afraid.

            After what seemed like a couple of hours, but in reality was only a few seconds, the man stirred, and Michael could see the long pale hair slide smoothly, like a sheet of silk, over one shoulder.

            "Wotcher, mate," said the man softly. "All comfy then?"

            He sounded English like Professor White, but not so much Masterpiece Theater as Monty Python. Michael's chest was starting to hurt. He took a deep, slow breath, not wanting to move for fear of inciting this burglar to violence.

            "Who are you?" he whispered.

            "Call me Legs," the man answered, and hopped off the dresser. Michael saw him standing there but hadn't heard his feet when they'd touched the floor. He wondered why, because he KNEW the man was wearing boots and there was nothing but tile – why hadn't he _heard_ anything?

            "Legs?" he asked, swallowing hard. Please wake up, Francis, he begged silently; please wake up and save me! I don't WANT to die in a Home Invasion, it would be SO Unfair!

            "Yeah." The dark figure rustled around a bit in his pocket, and Michael's heart nearly leapt out of his throat – he was going to pull out a gun and KILL THEM BOTH!!!! But whatever Legs withdrew from his pocket didn't seem too lethal; there was a crinkling of cellophane and a white disc disappeared into the man's mouth. Michael could smell the faint scent of peppermint. When the man spoke again something was clattering against his teeth, and suddenly Michael realized what the man had done. "Redid the décor, didn't yer? Very posh."

            "Um." Michael was still terrified but wasn't sure what to do next. He felt vaguely he should scream, but it seemed a little anticlimactic now. Then to his relief and horror Francis stirred, he lay still for a moment, then sat up abruptly, staring at the man in the bedroom, his eyes wary.

            "What do you want?" he asked, his voice tight.

            There was a snort from the man. "Oh, that's bloody nice. No 'Hello, how are you, won't you siddown for a fuckin' cuppa,' just want me to skive off, eh? Oofy little fucker." There was a dark antagonistic humor in his voice that sent chills up Michael's spine; he expected at any moment to see the flash of metal in the man's hands.

            Francis' eyebrow went up. "Well, you did startle me," he said dryly.

            Michael goggled at him. He didn't seem to be frightened much at all, just kind of guarded and braced, much like he had been with Professor White.

            Michael had a sudden irrational flash of inspiration that Professor White and Legs knew each other. He looked back at Legs, the face still hidden in shadow. He seemed very tall, taller than Francis, because the top of his head was a lot closer to the finial on the bed post. There was a smooth grace to his movements when he approached the bed, and the long hair swung glistening down, reflecting back the street lamp's light. He dug in his pocket again, and pulled out a square of stiff paper, tossing it onto the rumpled bedclothes.

            "Here," he said. Francis didn't move, just glanced at the paper. Michael stared at it; it seemed to be an envelope embossed with gold writing. "There's two in there, mate. Bring yer little Mary-Ann if yer like."

            He turned and walked over to the window, stepped up onto the divan and put his hand on the sill. Then he turned back, his face illuminated, and Michael caught his breath: this man, Legs, was beautiful – even more beautiful than Francis. He could see in that one brief glance the high cheekbones, smooth jaw, full curving lips and large slanted eyes; the sheet of pale hair fell down the sides of his face like a shimmering waterfall.

            "Wear yer monkey suits," he said, then almost faster than Michael could watch him, he launched himself through the window and disappeared.

            Michael gave a squeak of surprise. Suddenly galvanized, he leapt off the bed and ran to the window. He stood up on his toes on the divan, looking out; he could see the patio two stories below, and the empty street below that, but no other movement in the harshly illuminated darkness. He turned back to Francis, bewildered.

            "Where did he go?" he asked wildly.

            Francis had picked up the envelope, opened it, and was reading the card inside calmly. "He's very fast," he said, his voice a little absentminded. Michael stared at him in amazement.

            "How can you be so CALM?" he demanded, leaping onto the bed and curling himself up into a ball. "A strange man just showed up in our bedroom and swore at us and gave us a mysterious letter and jumped out our window and you're acting as if it's all NORMAL!"

            "It _is_ normal, for Legs," said Francis. He looked up at Michael and smiled, then put his arm around his lover. "It's all right," he said soothingly. "Legs is a little … unusual, that's all."

            "But what did it MEAN?" asked Michael, leaning into the comforting warmth of Francis' body. He looked down at the card; the angle Francis was holding it tilted it into darkness, and he couldn't read it. "What is that? What did he give you?"

            "Two VIP passes to his one-man show in L.A. next Friday," said Francis. He put the envelope on the side table, frowning thoughtfully. "You don't have a tuxedo. We'll have to get you fitted for one. Are you working in the morning?"

            "What?" asked Michael. "Why do I need a tuxedo?"

            "Legs said we needed to wear them."

            The light dawned. "Is that what he meant by 'monkey suits'?"

            "Yes," said Francis patiently. "You'll get used to the way he speaks eventually. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's very – " Francis paused; his tongue flicked out to touch his lips, and his voice changed, becoming a little rougher. " – effective."

            A horrible suspicion flared up in Michael's heart. Had they been _lovers_? Francis was so into the Arts, and the phrase "one-man show" implied an artist – he couldn’t ask, though; he wasn't sure he even wanted to know. "He's a friend of yours?"

            Francis looked sharply at him, and Michael realized it was another thing to Not Discuss. "I've known him a long time," he said shortly. "We're not friends – but – we – know a lot of the – same people."

            "Like Professor White?" blurted Michael unthinkingly; when he realized he'd brought up a Not Discussed he clapped his hand over his mouth. But Francis laughed a little ruefully.

            "Yes – Professor White is one of them."

            Michael hesitated. He didn't dare try to probe some more; that seemed to be a definite sore spot. But his heart was still doing a jig in his chest from his fright and he wanted reassurance. "So he's not dangerous?"

            Francis looked abruptly over at him, his face darkening like a thundercloud. "Oh, he's very dangerous," he said harshly, and Michael saw his hands had been balled into fists. "Were you afraid of him, Michael? Were you?" When Michael hesitantly nodded Francis said grimly: "Stay afraid of him. Don’t cross him, don't make him mad. Do whatever he says. Keep away from him if you can. Promise me, Michael."

            Michael swallowed. He realized part of his heart had yearned toward the angelic face of the intruder, and Francis' interdiction was a little unwelcome. But Francis looked so earnest, so grave, so intense that Michael dropped his eyes obediently. Besides, Francis' warning had sounded more than a little frightening, and if he knew Legs, he'd know that Michael was no match for him, and anyway he was only trying to protect him.

            "I promise," he said meekly, and pulled his legs in closer to himself, trying to get warm. Francis gave another one of those incoherent noises in his throat and then Michael was in his arms, being caressed and kissed and nuzzled, the attendant warmth chasing his fears away. But he was a little resentful of Francis' casual attitude; after all it HAD been scary. "I don't know how you can be so calm, Francis," he said petulantly. "After all, I was scared to DEATH."

            "You poor thing," mumbled Francis against his collarbone, and Michael quivered when he felt his lover's teeth nip him lightly. "I was only thinking – it would be such a shame – we're awake anyway – "

            "Oh – " the teeth were making their way down his torso, and now Michael's heart was getting its second workout of the hour. He reflected through the sudden haze that clouded his brain that no doubt Francis was just trying to distract him, but then he felt warm knowing hands part his thighs, and he decided that surrendering to this particular distraction was quite a good idea.


	3. Legs

**Legs**

 

 

            Michael stood perfectly still in his tuxedo, staring with a sort of paralyzed wonder at the canvas in front of him.  In the back corner of his mind he knew he cut a splendid figure – he hadn't worn a tuxedo since his sister's wedding, and the rental had never made him look like THIS – it set off his pale complexion and lithe form, his boyish features and curly blond hair.  But for some reason he couldn't bring himself to circulate in this crowd of Los Angeles' artistic elite – much as he would have loved to network, much as he would have loved to Be Seen, the landscape entranced him, and he was numb to almost anything else.

            It was a huge painting, nearly twenty feet long and ten feet high. It had been painted with obvious care, concentration, and time over the large canvas.  When Michael stood up close to the painting he could see the tiny brushstrokes, the blended colors, the thin lines of paint and sweeping strokes of light.  When he backed up he was standing in a field surrounded by mountains – he could smell the air and the grass, feel the chill in the breeze coming down the snowy slopes, hear the birdcalls from the myriad tiny songbirds hidden in the grass, hear the whicker and whinny of the horses that dotted the field, their glossy hides gleaming in the sunlight.  It was mellow, verdant, lush, swelling with life and serenity. 

            Michael didn't know why – it was nothing at all like the modern art he was used to, more like the old-fashioned landscapes he'd studied in Art History 101 – but the painting seemed to draw him, tugging at his heart, urging him to leave his frenetic pace and flustered schedule behind, to immerse himself in that half-wild beauty, give it all up and simply BE.  Michael was not an outdoorsy person and this compulsion disturbed him.  He wondered if the rest of the paintings were like this.  He stepped back, shook himself lightly, and looked around for Francis.

            His lover had left him the instant they'd been introduced to the museum curator, muttering something about needing to find some people.  The curator had been polite, showing Michael into the richly furnished rooms that housed the canvasses of the Featured Artist, making sure he got his Dom Perignon and caviar and letting him wander about the rooms on his own.  But Michael had been visually hijacked by the first canvas he'd laid eyes on, and his champagne was still untouched. 

            He took a sip and grimaced; it had grown warm.  How long had he been standing there – twenty minutes, maybe more?  He was about to walk away when he noticed a woman watching him from across the room.  She was sitting on one of the chairs, a big burgundy one with gold tassels.  She was very beautiful, with pale silvery gray eyes and skin like polished ivory, and was dressed elegantly in an expensive-looking silver suit, with a charmingly retro hat nearly obscuring the glossy midnight of her hair and draping down over her ears.  Her gloved hands were folded demurely on her lap, her knees were together, her ankles crossed; everything about her bespoke of refinement and sophistication.  At first Michael felt very lowbrow and out of place, but then she smiled at him, her red lips parting to show white even teeth, and then she rose gracefully and crossed the room to him.

            He smiled a little nervously as she approached.  She was nearly as tall as he, and so drenched in sophistication and culture he nearly drowned in it.  He wondered desperately what he should say to her, and hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid.  But she stood beside him, looking gravely up at the painting, then said after a moment, "A little overwhelming, isn't it?"

            "Well," said Michael diffidently, "a teensy bit, maybe."  He looked back at the canvas.  "It does – funny things to you, doesn't it?"

            "Do you think so?"  She raised one eyebrow and contemplated him.  "What does it make you want to do?"

            "Leave," said Michael promptly.  "Go away.  Find these mountains.  Which is silly," he said shyly.  "I don’t know anything about horses or birds or things like this.  I'm a city boy."

            "That doesn't mean you wouldn't enjoy seeing mountains," said the woman seriously.  "Francis loves the mountains.  Perhaps he'll take you."

            Michael did a double-take, but she was looking at him very calmly.  "Does the whole world know I'm living with Francis?" he asked peevishly, taking a sip of his warm champagne.

            "Everyone who counts," she said, smiling.  She offered one gloved hand to him.  "Arwen Walker."

            "And I suppose you already know I'm Michael Morris," said Michael archly, taking her hand.  He wondered if he should shake it or kiss it, and was relieved when she gripped his hand and shook it gently.

            "Well, yes, I knew you were Michael Morris because I saw you come in with Francis," she said, her smile stretching into a charming grin.  "Want to meet my husband?  He's looking at the portraits."

            "Okay," said Michael, his knot of nervousness subsiding.  It was nice to be with someone who knew Francis, even if she WAS a little over the top as far as class was concerned – then again, if this were class, or rather, Class with a Capital C, he was a lot more comfortable with it than with the society women his mother always seemed to want to entertain.  They made him feel gauche, obvious, embarrassing; Mrs. Walker was so gracious and soothing and kind. 

            He followed her past more landscapes – some of desert scenes, some of cities in foreign countries – into another room, larger still, filled with full-scale portraits, some busts, others the entire figure.  He glanced at one as they passed – he saw a man standing by a desk, pompously posed, elaborately dressed; there were many objects on the desk that he was sure held some symbolic meaning but what it was he couldn't figure out, for at that moment a tall powerful-looking man with graying dark hair approached.  His tuxedo was a little faded and worn, but his bearing was regal and focused, though his face was gentle.  He met them in the middle of the floor, smiling tenderly at Mrs. Walker and taking her hand gently in his own.  They met each others' eyes, lost momentarily in their mutual affection, which made Michael feel horribly out of place; however the man broke away from his wife's gaze and offered his hand to him.

            "You must be Michael," he said.  His voice was rough and deep, as though he was used to doing a lot of shouting, and Michael suddenly felt as though whatever this man asked him to do, he'd do it in a heartbeat.  He smiled up at him.

            "Yes," he said.  "You're Mr. Walker then?"

            "Dr. Ari Walker," said the man, shaking his hand politely.  "Pleased to meet you."

            "He's pretty, isn't he, dear?" asked Mrs. Walker, looking at Michael.  "Professor White said he was pretty, and he was right."

            "Professor White is usually right," said Dr. Walker dryly.  "Do you two want to watch Legs at work?  There's some highbrow art critic here who's been giving him blistering reviews.  He's come here to interview him."

            "Oh, goody!" laughed Mrs. Walker, her eyes sparkling.  She clapped her gloved hands together, making a soft thupping noise, and gave a little hop on her heels.  "I love watching egos get deflated."

            Dr. Walker led them round the wall to the back corner.  There was a little cluster of people gathered around a nude portrait, beside which sat a tall lean man with long blond hair and an angelic face.

            "Legs," thought Michael, his heart racing, though whether it were through fear or excitement he couldn't tell.  Legs was lounging, tipping the chair back, his long legs in their battered jeans stretched out in front of him, big lug-soled boots crossed, arms folded across his chest.  He was chewing gum, insolently, mouth open, eyes half closed; the man addressing him looked down arrogantly at him.

            Michael felt a hand tug at his arm.  It was Dr. Walker, leading him around a small partition where they could observe in privacy.  Michael watched the man talking to Legs.  He was dressed in a dark purple tuxedo, with a lavender shirt, its ruffles edged in silver; his tie and cummerbund were a bright paisley and his long hair was combed carefully over a bald spot.  His sycophants were hanging on his every word, and several of them were writing down what he was saying.  Dr. and Mrs. Walker put their fingers to their lips and Michael listened.

            "Your blatant shift into hyperrealism shows a certain nouveau-Renaissance aspect to the work, though its androgynous nature reveals an almost lascivious and pagan influence.  It is very backward-looking, though your explorations seem liberally mixed with a moralizing subject, providing a highly diversified aspect.  Do you feel this dichotomy allows you to bridge from Spartan to the more worldly and sensuous symbolism of this portrait here?" 

            He looked superciliously down at Legs, flaring his nostrils and sneering, and the surrounding men and women hurriedly scribbled down what he had declaimed.  Legs rolled the gum around in his mouth, snapped it loudly, and waited for them to stop writing.  When they were all looking down expectantly at him, he blew a big pink bubble, popped it, and drew the sagging plasticine detritus back between his lips.  He drawled indolently:

            " 'S a picture of a bloke."

            There was a deadly little silence; Michael saw the critic's face turn red.  The sycophants all looked at the critic, doubtful and uncertain.  The critic in turn stared down at Legs, who snapped his gum at him, his insolent face unmoved.

            "But surely," said the critic, very obviously struggling to control his temper, "you admit your foray into the antiquated world of Romanticism and imaginative sardonic moral dualism displays a return to the academic strictures of the arbitrary standards imposed upon the painters of the nineteenth century, in that you flaunt the horizontal balance and color infusion so touted by adherents to that style, thereby negating your very oeuvre with the sensual luxury of the subject and his grossly ornamental modeling?"

            Another pink bubble popped, there was the snap and wet susurration of chewing.  " 'S a picture of a bloke what has no clo'es."

            There was a titter from the back of the group; the critic turned, glaring, behind him, then wheeled back around to Legs, who continued to stretch, chew, and pop.  "So," he said, his face very red; Michael felt a little sorry for him.  "Is that all you have to say about it?  That he's wearing no clothes?"

            "Yeah," said Legs.  He glanced casually up at the picture.  " 'S a mate.  'E's a poofter."

            Another titter, followed by a surreptitious snicker.  Michael saw the critic's hands, which were blue-veined and knotted, clench.  He wondered why the man had such old-looking hands, then looked more carefully at the critic's face.  That was it then, he'd dyed his hair; this man was older than he looked. 

            Michael had a sudden realization: the critic was one of those conceited, egotistical, supercilious, artsy-fartsy types who showed off and belittled others to make people think he was smarter than he actually was.  He recognized the man for what he was now; he had certainly run across plenty of them in his mother's circle.  He looked at the portrait in question.  It was of a pretty young man, dark-haired, big-eyed, and rosy-cheeked, reclining on a richly ornamented and draped bed.  There were tapestried wall hangings, elaborately carved wood, swaths of silk and velvet and damasked cloth; the youth himself was staring at the viewer, eyes deep and rich and profoundly sad, as though the pain and suffering of a thousand ages had built up its filth in the corners of his mind and no matter what he did, how rich he was, how many lovers he satisfied, none of it was ever going to go away.  It was NOT just "a bloke with no clothes," but obviously Legs, to answer the critic's hubris and self-importance, threw these phrases out at him to cut him down a little.  Michael giggled. 

            "Well done, wasn't it?" whispered Mrs. Walker into his ear.  Her breath tickled and she smelled very expensive.  He nodded. 

            The three of them watched the critic desperately try to salvage his standing, his every intellectually soaked phrase denigrated by Legs' cutting replies, until the smirking crowd started to filter away.  At last the critic was left alone, glaring down at Legs, who blinked brazenly back, cracking his bubble gum.  Dr. and Mrs. Walker and Michael leaned forward, straining to hear what the critic would say next.  "Probably something snotty and condescending," thought Michael, realizing with a shock he was mentally cheering Legs on, and wondering what Francis would think.

            "You may think you're secure because the rich and uneducated are buying up your portraits and landscapes and still-lifes," said the critic, his voice thick and choked, "but remember you're nothing but a second-rate cut-price imitative retroactive academic cheat who's bought your way in."

            Michael winced. That wasn't a nice thing to say about ANYBODY, and anyway he might not have been an artist himself but he KNEW that Legs' paintings were marvelous, because just the two he had seen had Meant Something and that was saying a lot, because if Art Meant Something it was Significant. 

            He was just about to burst out from behind the partition to defend Legs when Legs finally moved.  The big heavy boots clunked on the floor; the chair rattled back into place.  The long graceful body stretched up, towering over the critic, intimidating not only with his superior height but his very presence, a sort of rock-solid firmness, a profound and bottomless awareness coupled with a stubborn and unyielding power.  Michael shivered.  In the dark Legs had been frightening enough.  To come face to face with him bordered on a Religious Experience, and Michael didn't like Religious Experiences much at all, as they usually required some sort of perspective shift, which was typically uncomfortable. 

            He watched, transfixed, as those brilliant blue eyes fixed themselves on the critic, throwing the very weight of his personality on him.  The critic withered, and his eyes dropped.

            There was another snap of the gum, and the light clear voice said simply, "Fuck off."  With a hangdog backward glance, the critic scuttled away.

            Michael felt as though he ought to defend the critic somehow to the chuckling couple next to him, though secretly he had been delighted by the exchange.  He said, "That wasn't very nice."

            "Neither was Eugene Ferril," laughed Dr. Walker.  "You haven't read his reviews of Legs' stuff, they're really cruel and condescending – nice job, friend."

            Michael turned; Legs had approached without his noticing, and stood, grinning, his hands in his pockets.  "Thanks, mate," he said, giving his gum a definitive snap.  "Fuck, I'm parched.  Any more bubbly?"

            "You can have mine," said Michael with forced boldness.  "It's gone all warm."

            "No thanks, Mary-Ann," said Legs.  He looked around, stretching his neck out.  He was, if anything, lovelier than Mrs. Walker despite his rough clothes and crass talk; there was a fineness, a spirituality to the alabaster face, the shimmering hair that almost made him seem like he wasn't truly there – it was just a spirit, somewhat corporeal, but belonging to a different world, insubstantial, glorious. 

            Michael shuddered, feeling suddenly cold.  He wasn't sure he was comfortable around someone who made him feel that way, but it explained the paintings – compelling, alluring, convicting, unnerving. 

            "Ah, there's the barkeep – Oi, Pete!  Hand round the fuckin' bubbly already, will yeh?  An' get me some Liffey Water."  He turned back to Dr. Walker.  "What say, Longshanks?  Fancy a Guinness?"

            "Why not?" shrugged the doctor.  "Sun's over the yardarm."  Mrs. Walker gave a musical laugh and Legs grinned at her.

            "Well, poppet?" he said.  "Bet you want a big fucking glass of horse-piss."

            "Watch your language," laughed Mrs. Walker.  "No, thank you – Michael and I will stick with Dom Perignon.  Won't we, Michael?"  She linked her gloved hand around Michael's elbow, and Legs smiled down at them, his pink mouth curved sweetly upward, his wild neon eyes glimmering dangerously. 

            Michael swallowed, trying to meet that intense blue stare, but it was no good; he was too weak.  He looked down at the floor, at his new Versace shoes beside Mrs.Walker's Pradas.  Then he felt long cool fingers under his chin, tipping his face up.  He looked fearfully up at the man above him, heart in his throat; but Legs' face was kind, and his eyes were friendly.

            "Need it, don’t yer, Mary-Ann?" he grinned, and taking a fresh glass of champagne from the server pressed it into Michael's hand.  Michael, unable to stop himself, and against his better judgment, drank it all down, and Legs laughed and gave him some more.

            "Lookit that then," he grinned to the Walkers.  "Fuckin' likes it, don't he?  Ah, he's a nice little bugger."

            Michael flushed, feeling like a kitten that had just had a ribbon tied round its neck and was being simpered over.  But the champagne was potent and his stomach was empty, and after a few more glasses he didn't care, but stood next to Legs as he chatted with his friends, gazing up with bewildered adoration at him, and wondering where on earth Francis had got to.


	4. Cafe Deo Volente

**Café Deo Volente**

 

 

            Michael sat in the cool ironwork chair, his bottom thankfully cushioned by a thick feathery pad and his nerves bolstered by the copious amounts of champagne he'd drunk.  He had taken glass after glass of crisp cold Dom Perignon while following Legs around the entire exhibit, listening in bemused admiration to the tart trashy voice describe and explain each painting, from the portraits to the still-lifes to the landscapes.  At one point a fragile-looking, timid old lady had hesitantly approached them, clutching the programme in her hand and asking a rather banal question, and Michael had stiffened.  He was sure Legs would give the poor woman a similar dose of the lashing sarcasm he'd laid on the supercilious critic's back. 

            But Legs had smiled at her, a charming, don't-you-love-me smile, and cutting back the cuss words considerably had taken her gently by the arm and led her around as well, explaining to her in simple but courteous terms what his paintings meant.  Afterwards, when the old lady had beamed up at him and thanked him profusely, Legs had bent gallantly down over her hand and kissed it, and the old lady had broken out in flustered giggles for what Michael was sure the first time in about twenty years. 

            Michael stirred in his chair and looked around at his companions through the haze of champagne.  Francis sat on his left, brooding, staring at his plate and toying absently with his fork.  Glutinous oil swirled round the detritus of the red wine vinegar of the salad dressing, and there were flecks of oregano speckling the plate.  To Michael's right sat a stoutish, dumpy-looking woman with a severely butch haircut and no makeup, dressed in a denim skirt and white tee shirt.  She was holding hands with her companion, a short Alan Ginsburg look-alike with bushy brown hair and a beard that was long, braided, and tucked into a fat silver belt buckle sporting the name "Harley Davidson."  He was guffawing and talking loudly with the rest of the people around the table, and Michael thought he and his girlfriend – what was her name, Doris? – terribly out of place.  However, no one else seemed to even notice their plebeian manners and blue-collar habiliments, and conversed with them easily, as old friends do.  Across the table sat the Walkers, tall, dark, slim, elegant, expensive; and between the Walkers and next to Francis, carrying on a heated argument with the sommelier, was Legs.

            Michael knew he ought to try to follow the tenor of the conversation, but it took so much effort, and he didn't really understand much of it anyway – it bounced back and forth so, from couple to couple, and ranged over a variety of topics – horseback riding, the stock market, Comdex, fuel injectors.  The odd-man-out, the only one without a partner, was the most effervescent, the jolliest and loveliest and merriest – Michael looked at Legs, who had dismissed the sommelier and two waiters with a flick of his long white fingers; Legs caught him staring and grinned at him, then poked Francis in the side with his elbow. 

            "Oi, Frank; yer Mary-Ann's tippled too much."

            Francis looked coldly at him.  "That's hardly my fault, is it?" he asked, his voice stilted and neutral.  Legs laughed and ran his fingers through the silky fall of platinum hair, his blue eyes twinkling.

            "Aw, he likes it.  Don't yer, Mary-Ann?"

            "My name's Michael," said Michael a little petulantly.  Even Doris and the Alan-Ginsburg-Look-Alike (what WAS his name???) had known him instantly as Michael Morris.  The big hairy fellow had grasped him roughly in one meaty hand, shaken it, and boomed:  "Hey, Doris!  Look!  Faramir's little boyfriend!  Michael, right?"  And Michael had nodded, already befuddled with champagne; at that point Francis himself had arrived, white and furious, to be shepherded away by Alan Ginsburg, or whoever he was, while Michael was left to entertain Doris and Mrs. Walker. 

            Despite their differences the two women obviously knew each other well and liked each other even better.  They had chatted comfortably about Gold Wings until their polite attempts to draw Michael into the conversation failed (he hadn't even known it was a motorcycle until that point), then they brought up interior design, and the three had conversed for nearly an hour by the time Grim – that was his name, Grim – had brought Francis back, pale and shaken-looking.

            "What's wrong?" Michael had blurted, but Francis, glancing nervously at the two women, merely licked his lips and said curtly, "Nothing."  Then Legs had sauntered up, a lollipop hanging negligently from his mouth and clattering against his teeth; he'd said, "Right, then?" and everyone left without saying another word.  It was very odd.

            Michael looked out at the street past the stone wall of the restaurant courtyard.  There was a concrete ewer there with a half-dead geranium in it, its spindly little branches drooping down between Legs' and Mrs. Walker's heads.  The California sun was bright overhead, the _salade niçoise_ had been delicious, the bread was crusty with a good chewy, tangy center, and the wine flowed freely into the bulbous glasses, pale and yellow – so far, a Fine Meal.  Legs lifted his glass in salute to Michael, his eyes sparkling with an uncompromising mischievousness. 

            "Keep bloody reminding me then," he said, laughing his light musical laugh.  "Michael it is.  I slip up again, you can fucking bollock me, all right?"

            "All right," said Michael, mollified; he smiled hesitantly at Legs around Francis' dark arm.  He could feel Francis' disapproval, could see the stiffness of his spine, the slight tightening of the muscles round his eyes.  But Francis was silent, regarding his companions equably, and didn't stop Michael talking to any of them.

            "You'll get used to it," said Grim, leaning forward to pluck another slice of bread from the basket in front of Doris.  "He never calls anyone by their names.  Bet he can't even remember his own wife's name."

            Wife?  Michael looked at Legs in surprise, who was grinning and giving Francis a sly look.

            "Maybe I can't," he said, voice deceptively easy. "Bet Frankie here can.  Oughter, right, mate?  What's 'er name, Faramir?"

            Francis stirred, glanced uneasily at Legs; there was a glint of anger in his pale eyes.  Michael held his breath, waiting for the cold conflagration, but at that moment Dr. Walker clucked his tongue and said reprovingly, "Now, now, Legs; let's not get into all that again.  It's not very nice."

            Francis' eyes flickered, startled, at Dr. Walker; Legs glanced between them both, and his pretty pink lips curved up into a satisfied smirk.  "That's better, innit?" he whispered, lowering his lashes coquettishly to Francis.  Francis closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

            Then the _paella_ arrived and everyone began talking about food – bouillabaisse, oysters Rockefeller, tapenade, Roquefort.  Michael took a deep breath and looked at Francis, who was pushing back his plate with brusque, finicky movements, his expression grim and set.  Something else was going on, something deep and uncomfortable beneath the surface of this lovely meal in this lovely restaurant on this lovely day with all these lovely people.  A sinister thread of antagonism and fear slivered through the conversations and glances, and it didn't help that the wine on top of the champagne made Michael's senses dull and inattentive. 

            He looked over at Mrs. Walker.  Her eyes at least were gentle and sympathetic.  She was watching Francis, unsmilingly, and Michael had the sudden conviction her sympathy would extend only as far as Francis' submission.  That thought bothered him and he looked away.

            "Want some _paella_?  It's delicious," said Doris, handing him a platter.  Michael thanked her and took the platter from her with one hand.  It was heavy and hot, and some of the grease shifted out from underneath the saffron rice, tickling his fingertips; it smelled pungent and spicy.  His mouth watered and he started scooping it onto his plate, picking round the squid and mussels and concentrating on the shrimp and lobster and chunks of monkfish.  He handed it to the still, dark presence at his side and said timidly,

            "Francis?"

            Francis turned his head and regarded Michael carefully; his hooded eyes were tense and wary.  "Thank you, darling," he said in a low voice, taking the platter.  Their fingers brushed over each other and Michael shivered.  They froze, hands entwined under the platter, Michael transfixed by the intensity of Francis' gaze; it seemed to him as though the fear and tension melted out of them and the icy gray eyes softened, holding him firmly in their grip.  Then Francis blinked, glanced back at Legs, and took the platter. 

            Michael looked past Francis and saw that Legs was watching them, neon eyes glittering, pink mouth curved into a mordant smile.  His long narrow fingers turned the sweating goblet round about, tilting the pale yellow wine in the glass, and a sheet of golden hair half-obscured the angelic face.  Francis turned to him, still holding the platter, eyes defiant and chin set stubbornly, while Legs played with his wine stem and smiled up through his lashes at him.  After a moment Legs murmured:

            "Save me a little fuckin' monkfish, anyway, will yer?" and took a long draught.

            Francis swallowed convulsively and Michael could see a faint sheen of sweat on his scrupulously shaved upper lip.  Then he tore his eyes from Legs' and started to load up his plate with a shaking hand.

            Doris asked Michael something then, and his attention was jerked away.  But he felt as though he'd missed something significant – there it was again – some menacing meandering stream washing over the party, making the clear happy voices sound ominous, and the bright sunshine a mockery.  He could feel Francis' stiff presence behind him, dark, uneasy, braced for some horrible event looming on the horizon that Michael couldn't even fathom.  But the wine kept the dread at bay, and the _paella_ was delicious; soon he was happily soaking the remnants up with a piece of bread, and groaning casually with Doris about being too full for dessert.

            "A fuckin' shame too," came Legs' voice across the table to them.  "Have yer tried the _tarte tatin?_   Unfuckingbelievable, it is – and they serve it with loads of cream."

            Francis cleared his throat delicately, glanced at Legs.  "I was thinking of the napoleon myself," he said, a little diffidently.

            "Ah, they do that well here," smiled Legs.  He set his wine glass down and leaned back in his seat, looking around at the rest of the party.  "Know what we ought to do, mate?  Order one of every fuckin' thing on the afters menu – pud's too bloody important to faff off, an' gettin' this bleeding crew to agree on anything's a long shot."

            "I'm sure you could convince them," said Francis.  His voice was dry now, laced with humor; some of the tension left his shoulders.  Legs grinned.

            "I could at that, couldn't I?" he said immodestly.  "All right then – one of everything off the dessert cart, and a round of espresso."

            "Cappuccino," corrected Mrs. Walker from across the table.

            "Café au lait for me," added Doris with a wicked smile.

            "Fuck!" exclaimed Legs incredulously.  "Waterin' down the best bloody coffee in L.A. with milk?  What the fuck are you gettin' at?"  The rest laughed, even Francis; he smiled tentatively at Legs and said,

            "I'm with you, Legolas – Café Deo Volente's espresso is inviolable.  Surely you all agree."  He looked around at his companions, challenging; Dr. Walker smiled at him.

            "Maybe.  I reserve the right to add a touch of Benedictine."

            "Oh, well!"  Francis shrugged elaborately and drained his wine glass.  "A little liqueur never hurt anyone."  He glanced cautiously at Dr. Walker, whose smile deepened.

            "So you've said before," agreed Dr. Walker, and Francis looked relieved.

            "I'll just skip the coffee and jump right to the digestif," boomed Grim with a big laugh.  "Good _vin d'orange_ here, better than dessert."

            "Shocking!" exclaimed Legs, putting one hand on his heart and the other against his forehead dramatically.  "Grim's puttin' liquor before sugar.  What's this fuckin' world comin' to?"  Everyone laughed again, and Michael felt his apprehension fade.  It was just the wine, he told himself.  Nothing was going to Happen.

            He let the jitters ease out of his stomach as the desserts were passed round.  He had a piece each of Francis' napoleon and Legs' apple tart, and tasted Doris' lemon mousse.  The espresso was thick and creamy, and cut the sweetness of the "afters," as Legs called them, to perfection.  When the waiter set down the thick black notebook by Legs' side he watched in surprise as Legs flicked out a credit card, slipped it into the notebook, and handed it back to the waiter, who nodded politely and left.  Michael leaned over to Francis and whispered,

            "Why's he paying for everyone?  Shouldn't we ask for separate checks?"

            Francis looked down at him with a faint smile.  "His party," he said in a low voice, brushing his lips over Michael's ear.  "He can afford it, after all."  Then the tip of a hot wet tongue flicked his lobe.  Michael shivered appreciatively and the rest of his apprehension faded with the familiar jolt of pleasure.  Good food, good wine, good coffee, and the promise of good sex – it was shaping up to be One Of Those Evenings after all.

            Everyone rose from their places, faces glowing in the mellow light, eyes bright with wine and sugar.  They filtered out of the restaurant, bidding gracious good-byes and you're-welcomes to the grateful waiters and maitre d'.  At last they all stood outside Café Deo Volente on the curb, waiting for taxis, looking back in on the little square courtyard at the busboys clearing their table.  They all chatted easily, even Francis, who was discussing with a touch of animation the latest Microsoft releases with Grim.  Then a taxi pulled up, which Francis claimed; taking Michael gently by the elbow he steered him to the curb, thanking Legs politely for the invitation and lovely dinner.

            "Yer welcome, mate," said Legs easily.  "See you Monday then?"

            All the tension that had previously bled out of Francis' body came jolting back.  He stiffened, eyes going a little wide, and turned back to Legs.  Michael turned too, and noticed everyone was watching them, eyes expectant.  Legs stood casually unwrapping a lollipop which he'd dug from the pocket of his disreputable jeans, smiling secretively at his own long deft fingers.  Michael glanced up at Francis; his face was very white, and Michael could feel the thin tendrils of fear start to wind themselves around his previously contented entrails.

            "As I told Grim," said Francis slowly, his voice uneven and loud in the sudden stillness, "I'll be at work.  Terribly sorry."  With an effort he turned back to the taxi, but Michael was still watching Legs.  He saw the rosebud lips curl into a cruel smile, the blue eyes flicked up to his own, and he winked through a curtain of silvery hair.

            "So you will," he murmured. 

            Michael shivered.  Legs’ voice was low, threatening, caressing.  Francis glanced back, gave Michael an impatient look, and climbed into the taxi, ignoring the sudden stiffness of the people around them.

            Michael looked at Legs, who had fixed him with his neon-blue gaze, pinning him; Michael was transfixed by the sight of the little green lollipop sliding into that sweet mouth.  He swallowed, and Legs' mouth curled up into a grin around the white stick.

            "See yer, mate," he said. 

            Michael swallowed and dragged his eyes away from Legs' face; it was too much for him – like a fallen angel seeking to corrupt the innocent – his eyes fell on the pot of geraniums beside which Legs and Mrs. Walker had been sitting.  They were green, verdant, with brilliant scarlet blossoms.  It was very odd.

            "Michael!" said Francis from inside the taxi.  He looked impatient and very uncomfortable, and wouldn't meet any of his friends' eyes. 

            Hurriedly, afraid of Francis’ temper, Michael jumped into the taxi and closed the door, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Legs as they pulled away from the curb.  The long lean body was relaxed against the stone wall of the restaurant patio, arms folded across his chest, and that same secretive smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  Michael trembled but didn’t look away until Legs faded from sight.


	5. At the Lido

**At The Lido**

 

 

            Francis was in One Of Those Moods when they returned to San Diego, and nothing Michael did – not even offering a long soak in the tub in sandalwood-scented water the following Saturday morning, complete with candles and the promise of a back-loofa – could drag him up out of it. Michael was wise enough to not push it, and besides, he could still feel that slight frisson of misgiving when he remembered the afternoon and evening – the bright chatter, erudite conversation, delicious food, overlaid with a sort of horror that made his skin come out all gooseflesh.

His dreams that weekend were infused with the voice and face and piercing eyes of the angelic incubus that hovered on the extremities of his consciousness, whispering, coaxing, beckoning; Michael awoke several times with the words "Yes, I'm coming!" nearly out of his mouth, but as soon as his eyes opened to the dimness of their bedroom and his limbs brushed against Francis' warm body, the voice died in his throat and he lay back, heart hammering.

            Monday was his day off, so he slept in, only vaguely aware of Francis moving quietly around their room, showering, shaving, getting dressed. Only when the scent of Francis' cologne finally faded did he allow himself to sleep deeply again, but this time the dream that came to him wasn't so much disturbing as hair-raising.

            He felt rough hands on himself, heard men's voices jeering. He was horribly afraid, he knew what they were going to do to him, and it was going to hurt. He could feel fingers tearing at the front of his pants, grappling with the zipper, and he struggled, screaming, "No! Please! Don't!" Then there was a flash of light followed by a wrenching explosion, and a hot thick liquid splattered over his face.

            Michael sat up so fast his head spun, breathing hard. He blinked the cobwebs away, gripping the soft cotton sheets in tight fists, reassuring himself it was only a dream. "A very very Bad Dream," he thought, trying to quiet his whirling thoughts; the terror clung to him though, and he got up and headed to the shower to try to wash it away.

            He felt a little better after he got dressed. The aftershocks of the fear he'd felt were fading, although he still felt a shiver up his spine when he remembered the raucous laughter of the men about to rape him. Where had THAT come from? Nothing like that had ever happened to him – knock on wood – he rapped on the dresser, then jumped in surprise when the triple rat-tat-tat was echoed on the front door.

            He looked at the clock. Nine thirty. Who could that be? Not Francis, surely – he stayed at the office until lunch-time, and never came home without telling Michael first. The landlady? Could Francis have forgotten to pay the rent? A possibility, he supposed, though considering his lover's almost maniacal adherence to the routine it was very unlikely. His heart starting to slow again, he went into the living room and peeked out the eye hole.

            A fish-eyed face peered back at him, nose enlarged and eyes receding back in the circle. Despite the distortion, Michael knew exactly who it was. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, then biting his lip he opened the door.

            "Oi, mate," grinned Legs, unwrapping a butterscotch disc. "All serene here?"

            Michael swallowed. Without Francis' reassuring presence, or even Dr. and Mrs. Walker's solid personalities to balance the blonde’s overwhelming aura, Michael felt very short, very slight, and very insignificant. Any assumptions of his own personal beauty went out the window when he looked up into that adorable, sweet face with its delectable mouth and gleaming eyes, and with a sweep of Legs' satiny hair he dashed any notion that Michael's hair could be called blond, too. He lowered his eyes and stepped aside to let Legs in, but the taller man didn't move.

            "Naw, mate," he said, his voice casual. "C'mon out, got somethin' to show yer."

            Michael hesitated, looked up into the other man's eyes. Legs smiled down at him, rolling the candy around in his mouth, his blue eyes gentle yet compelling. There it was – the urge to follow, to obey. And why shouldn't he? Well, Francis HAD told him to stay away from Legs – but he'd ALSO told him to do whatever Legs told him … Michael tried to think of a reason to not go out with Legs, but any objections seemed to pale when he met the man's eyes. It was with a feeling of relief he said, "Okay."

            Legs grinned at him and led him down the stairs to the street. There was a motorcycle parked on the curb, its chrome gleaming, its orange and green paintjob fresh and iridescent, tires and long seat glossy black. Legs walked up to the motorcycle and picked up a helmet that had been slung over the backrest. He held it out to Michael, but as Michael took his first step toward Legs, a quiver of fear shook him, and he hesitated.

            Legs didn't say anything; he didn't have to. The compulsion was so strong Michael nearly stumbled as he hurried up to the motorcycle. Legs lowered the helmet over Michael's head and gently fastened the straps, his touch tender, his face open and friendly. Hesitantly Michael smiled up at him. Legs flashed a brilliant grin at him and gave the top of the helmet a couple sharp raps, which sounded muffled and hollow to Michael's ears.

            "Right then?" said Legs.

            Michael turned to the motorcycle. He had never ridden one before and was a little afraid of them. But when he hesitated he met Legs' eyes, and without another word he gingerly mounted onto the back of the seat, and with the ease born of long use Legs swung up in front of him. With a kick and a twist the motorcycle roared to life; Michael yelped and wrapped his arms convulsively about Legs' waist. It was slim, hard, muscular; Michael could feel his diaphragm jiggling as he laughed, could feel the ripple of muscle beneath the soft tee shirt.

            "Hold on," he shouted, and Michael's stomach gave another tremendous lurch as the motorcycle peeled away from the curb and into the heavy morning traffic.

            Michael was terrified. He hated how the motorcycle leaned over every time they turned; he was positive he was going to fall off and Die, or at least be Horribly Mutilated. And screaming through the traffic, weaving in and out around the cars trying their damndest to cut them off and run them down, only added to his terror. He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched Legs' torso like it was his hope of heaven.

            At last they slowed, then stopped. Michael opened his eyes. Legs turned off the motorcycle and extended one long denim-clad leg to hold it up until he pushed the kick-stand down, then unwound Michael's stiff arms from round his body and dismounted, holding out a hand to Michael to help him. Michael was shaking violently and very unsteady on his feet. He allowed Legs to unfasten the chinstrap of the helmet and pull it off, too rattled to even care what his hair looked like. He stared up at Legs, eyes dilated and lower lip trembling. Legs frowned, though it seemed self-directed; he put a warm palm on Michael's cheek.

            "All right, mate?" he asked, thin brows puckered with concern.

            Michael shook his head wildly. With a little _tut-tut-_ ting sound, Legs gently put his long arms round Michael and pulled him up close, holding him and stroking his hair until his tremors subsided.

            Michael was numb, frozen in shock over the whole situation, and could only stand, hands limp by his side, face pressed into the fragrant piney hair, listening to a strong, steady heartbeat. After a moment Michael started to wonder what the passers-by were thinking of all of this, and pulled out of Legs' embrace, blushing; he tentatively touched his hair, and Legs grinned again.

            " 'S'not so bloody bad, once yer get used to it," he assured Michael, touching his cheek again, his fingers warm and gentle. "C'mon. In here."

            Michael blinked and looked around. They were standing in the front drop-off of The Lido, one of the priciest five-star hotels in town. Just the sight of the huge awning with its ornate scrollwork and the buttoned-down livery on the bellhops gave Michael a delicious little thrill, and he felt his terror fading. "What are we doing here?" he asked curiously.

            "I'm stayin' here, that's what," said Legs. He threw his keys to a valet and led Michael up to the big swinging doors, nodding politely to the bellhops; his long-legged stride made him a little difficult to keep up with, but Michael trotted along behind him, eyes wide, taking in the sight.

            The lobby was gorgeous – all gilt and crystal chandeliers and plush settees and discrete 'hops and concierges; there was a lush opulence to it that Michael had only seen in movies. To his surprise Legs strode purposefully up to the main desk, and the concierge smiled.

            "Yes, Mr. Greenleaf, how can I help you?" he asked.

            "Can yer tell yer fellas to keep an eye out fer a bloke comin' in later?" asked Legs. " 'Bout so high – " he held his palm about two inches lower than the top of his own head " – black hair slicked back, posh dresser, walks kinda nancy. Oughter be comin' in 'round sixish."

            "We'll keep you informed," promised the concierge. He saw Michael and gave him a polite smile. "A friend of yours, sir?"

            "Yeah. Have room service send up the Usual, will yer? Oi, any messages?"

            "Only one," said the concierge, handing him a folded sheet of paper. Legs glanced at it, smiled, slipped it into his pocket and said, "Thanks, mate."

            "You're very welcome, Mr. Greenleaf."

            Michael trailed after Legs as he loped away, fully aware of the concierge's piercing, speculative stare after them, and wondered how many other young men Legs brought up to his hotel room. The though both thrilled and horrified him – he couldn't cheat on Francis – it would be So Wrong – but – his eyes wandered down Legs' back to his ass. Tight, firm, round – was there any part of this man that WASN'T perfect?

            But when Legs faced him in the glass elevator Michael's heart turned to lead. Those shivery blue eyes, the air of inflexible resolve – no, this was one man, no matter how beautiful, no matter how Alpha, that Michael did not want to have relations with. And when Legs opened his suite door and gave Michael a casual shove beneath the lintel, shutting and bolting it behind them, his fear resurfaced and he began to tremble.

            The suite was huge, and ornately furnished. The carpet felt like crushed velvet beneath Michael's sneakers and there was the faintest smell of pine. It was all decorated in muted taupes and olives with black ironwork; prints of Tuscan scenes hung on the walls, and the furniture was plush and opulent. On every surface – the side tables with their tortoiseshell lamps, the glass dinette surrounded by heavy cast aluminum chairs, the top of the oak entertainment unit – were vase upon vase of plants and flowers: thick ferns dotted with bright orchids, lush sprays of hydrangea in blue and lavender and pink, drooping variegated petunias spreading their striped blossoms over the surfaces of the furniture, a twisty-trunked ficus that seemed to be trying to take over its corner. One of the windows was open, and the morning breeze stirred the draperies – pale gauzy streams of shimmery fabric dotted all over with faint gold fleurs-de-lis. Despite his apprehension he drank it in – the balance of color and tone, the scent of green growing things, the luxuriant muted lavishness, the European flavor –

            "Well?" Michael jumped and turned. Legs was standing by one of the tables, smiling at him, eyes knowing. "Do yer approve?"

            "Yes!" said Michael, a tad more enthusiastically than he'd intended. "It's perfect – just Wonderful. It satisfies me right HERE – " He put a hand on his breast and sighed. "Poorly decorated rooms just HURT me. This one is SO perfect."

            "Fuckin' marvelous," said Legs with a grunt. He walked over to the entertainment unit, where a big-screen TV was set up, and started fiddling with the remote. Michael stood still, wondering what was going to happen next, and if his rape dream were about to come true. The thought dropped a cold rock in the pit of his stomach and the tremors renewed.

            He watched Legs pout out one delicious pink lip, glaring contemplatively at the TV; finally he found a program of which he could approve (something off the History Channel, Michael thought) and threw himself on the couch, stretching his long legs in their big boots out in front of him to rest on the coffee table. He looked over at Michael.

            "Well, siddown already," he said.

            Michael swallowed. He wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door, run to the elevator, tear through the lobby outside and catch a cab home – but – there was the slightest flicker, a beckoning within him, and he found himself walking towards Legs on hesitant, stumbling feet.

            "That's right," said Legs soothingly. He patted the seat cushion of the easy chair beside him. "Put yer fuckin' feet up. Goin' to watch a telly special on inland China. Know anythin' about iodine?" He pronounced it _eye-oh-deen_ , so it took Michael a moment to figure out what he meant.

            "You mean the yellow stuff nurses put on your skin before they draw your blood?" He lowered himself cautiously down into the plush cushy chair. It enveloped and embraced him, inviting him to snuggle into its depths. He gave in and snuggled, though it was as yet only a little snuggle. He thought that maybe later, if he wasn't as scared, he'd snuggle a little more deeply; it was That Kind Of Chair.

            "A bit. More the chemical in seafood. If a pregnant woman doesn't get enough of it, the child is born retarded, and usually with severe birth defects. It'll even cause goiters in the adults. The poor folk in inland China don't get seafood, or even iodized salt, so it's a problem in some of the remoter villages. Almost a forty per cent idiocy rate."

            Michael stared at him. Legs was watching the TV intently, eyes unfocused but intense, lost in some inner drama. The G-dropping, foul-mouthed, slangy lingo seemed to have fallen away, and what was left was this sober sweet-lipped angel, compassion and concern softening the lines of his beautiful face, eyes sad and reflective. This sudden switch alarmed Michael even more than the motorcycle had, and he stiffened, but Legs, seeming to feel his fear, turned to him with a comforting smile.

            "Not to worry, mate," he said soothingly, patting Michael on the knee. "Yer safe here."

            "Was I not safe before?" demanded Michael. He was still afraid but he felt he deserved to ask that. Legs chuckled.

            "Were yer?" He returned his gaze to the television and smiled wryly. "Maybe so. Maybe not. Hard to fuckin' say sometimes. Don't know bleedin' everything, after all. What d'yer take me for, a bloody prophet?" And for some reason he seemed to find this very humorous, chuckling about it long after Michael started watching the program on iodine deficiency.

 

 

***************

 

            Room Service brought up a tray of cheese and bread and fresh strawberries, and some light lager, which Legs and Michael devoured with relish; the cheese was tangy and crumbly and sharp, and the bread soft and white. They washed it down with a couple bottles of the lager and Michael began to relax a little. When the special on iodine was over, Legs flipped channels until he found a soccer game, which he called "footie," and watched it with such violent enthusiasm Michael found himself laughing. Then they ordered lunch from Room Service – coconut soup, basil rolls, pad thai with shrimp and chicken, unbearably spicy green tofu curry that made Michael's eyes water, but was so delicious he couldn't stop eating – and watched an old Myrna Loy movie and drank strong white wine.

            Hours passed, and Michael found himself, much to his own surprise, splayed across the floor on his stomach, pillows and blankets rolled and bunched around them, with Legs beside him, dealing the cards for another game of cribbage. Not finding anything else of interest on the television they'd switched to the stereo, debating the merits of swing over jazz and discussing Nat King Cole and Gene Krupa and Glenn Miller and Al Di Meola.

            The longer Michael stayed with Legs, the less uncomfortable he became – never achieving a state of comfort, certainly, for how could one be comfortable with someone like Legs? It'd be easier, Michael decided, to relax around a hungry komodo dragon, or a swarm of angry hornets. If you stayed very very still and didn't do anything to rock the boat you were probably fine – but you never Really Knew, and it was best not to try anything.

            Still, Legs was an intelligent and interesting conversationalist, obviously much better educated than Michael had originally thought – and mortifyingly enough far better educated than Michael himself – well-traveled, well-read, incisive and shrewd, overlaid with a veneer of disreputable arrogance that was almost a pastiche of itself. But now and again, just to shake things up a bit, there would come a flicker of something – a light, an understanding, a hesitant turn of the head – that made Michael think Legs wasn't quite paying one hundred percent attention to him, that he was listening to someone else, someone Michael couldn't hear.

            Afternoon faded into evening, and cribbage was abandoned for the nightly news. Room service was called up again, this time delivering a tray of sushi, sashimi, and rolls that were almost too artistic to eat; Legs opened the bottle of warm sake and poured out a generous tumblerful for each of them.

            "Cheers, mate," he said with a wink, clinking his porcelain cup against Michael's.

            They were only dismantling their second knot of wasabi when the phone rang, making Michael jump a little; Legs unwound his long limbs and rose smoothly to his feet, walked over to the phone and picked it up.

            "Yeah?" he said. He paused, listening, his mouth curving into an almost unpleasant smile. "Yeah?" he said again, unable to disguise a note of satisfaction. "Good. Thanks, mate." He hung up the phone and walked back to Michael, his smile sliding into a grin. He knelt back down and started clearing off a space to his right, setting up an extra plate and pair of chopsticks.

            "Is someone coming?" asked Michael. He felt he ought to be more curious, but the light alcohol-induced haze had rubbed the edge off his caution.

            "Yeah, about fuckin' time," said Legs, and dipped a piece of ebi in his wasabi-thickened soy sauce. He looked thoughtfully at Michael as he chewed. "All right then, mate?"

            "Of course," said Michael in surprise. Why would he ask NOW? "Would I be sitting here eating sushi with you if I wasn't?"

            "Dunno," grinned Legs, draining his sake. "If it was good enough you might."

            Michael thought about this, then giggled. "You're right," he admitted, "I just might." He sat back and studied Legs, feeling sated and softened and almost comfortable. Legs sat cross-legged at the coffee table, long white fingers holding long white chopsticks. His profile was even, smooth, perfect; the fall of white-blonde hair settled in a smooth sleek wave over his shoulders. "Why am I here?" he blurted, hoping Legs wouldn't get angry.

            But Legs was still grinning, though he had his head cocked to one side as though he were listening to something else. "Would yer believe it if I told yer I was tryin' to get to know yer better?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

            Michael cocked his head, putting on his Cute Look. "I might," he said archly, fluttering his eyes. "But then I'd have to ask you WHY you wanted to get to know me better." The sake was burning in his blood and he felt suddenly bold.

            Legs shook his head ruefully. "I'm not yer type, mate," he said, almost apologetically, and Michael giggled again.

            "Why not?" he asked. "You're an Alpha Male. I like Alphas."

            "Like Francis?"

            Michael had almost forgotten Francis, and his heart sank. "Yes," he said. "Like Francis."

            "Strong, domineering, bossy turkey-cocks."

            Michael thought about it. Despite the crude terminology, it was very applicable. "Yes," he said.

            He hesitated, thinking over some of the things he'd heard and seen Friday at dinner. He speculated whether Legs and Francis had been lovers at some point, then decided if they had, it was no wonder it hadn't worked out – two Alphas, trying to make it together? They'd do nothing but fight and struggle for control. Besides, there was no denying that Francis didn't like Legs one bit. Part of that might have been echoes of a fractured romance, but most likely it had to do with two Alphas with diametrically opposed personalities, butting heads over how to live their lives. Francis, controlled, cool, proper Francis, and this wild, potty-mouthed biker? Hard to imagine – yet why else would Legs have made such a thing about twitting Francis about the name of his wife?

            "What IS your wife's name, Legs?" he asked.

            Legs' eyebrows climbed into his forehead. "Why d'yer wanna know?" he asked, pouring himself more sake. "Curious about two domineerin' people tryin' to work out how to shag each other and not commit fuckin' murder?"

            Well, that clinched it. Forcing down the stab of jealousy Michael said, "Maybe."

            Legs chuckled. "Ask Francis then," he said carelessly, selecting a slice of roll. Michael watched him dip it in the thick mealy soy sauce and put it in his mouth. He started to wonder whether he was actually going to be allowed out of the hotel room. What did Legs want with him, anyway?

            "When will I see Francis again?" he asked.

            Someone knocked at the door.

            "Now," said Legs, getting up and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

            How did he know? Michael thought perhaps he had left a note or something for Francis, or that when Francis came home from work and found Michael gone he'd automatically assume Michael was with Legs. The thought made him a little nervous. Why would Francis assume that? What did he know about Legs that Michael did not?

            Besides the topography of that long lean body, of course. And the taste of his mouth. Though Michael could probably guess what his mouth tasted like at that moment – soy sauce, horseradish, fish and rice. He sat up. Did he look okay? Francis always looked so perfect – even when he was rumpled and mussed from sleep, there was a chiseled flawlessness about him – Michael tried to straighten his hair and felt his heart sink. Legs was beautiful. How could he compete with _that_ , wife or no wife?

            Legs opened the door and stepped aside with a mocking bow. Francis stalked in, his face dark with fury. Michael could tell he was controlling himself only through sheer pig-headed effort, and felt his heart rate increase – Francis was frightening when he lost his temper; he hoped Legs and not he would be the receptacle of the Explosion when it came. "When," certainly not "if," because Francis was obviously far gone in rage already, though there was something else – fear? – lying behind those pale eyes.

            He glared at Legs, who shut the door and leaned against it, smiling wickedly through his lashes at him. Francis spoke, but it was in a language Michael didn't recognize; he knew it wasn't Spanish or French – it sounded melodic and sibilant – one of the oriental languages perhaps? – and Legs answered him, lips curved up impishly. Francis sounded angry, but indignant too; Legs' voice was mocking and playful. They argued back and forth, but it was obvious to Michael even though he couldn't understand them that Francis was losing the dispute, and after a few minutes he dropped his eyes and was silent. Legs watched him carefully, lips twitching; then Francis said sullenly: "All right – where is he?"

            "Right over there, fuckwit," said Legs, pointing at Michael.

Michael realized he'd been obscured by the sofa and Francis hadn't even noticed him during the argument. He got up on his knees and said hesitantly, "Hello, Francis."

            He was mortally afraid Francis would be angry with him, would glare and shout and bang on the furniture with his fist like he did when he lost his temper, but he got to his feet anyway and stood, eyes fixed on the carpet, his hands folded behind his back.

            But Francis walked quickly over to him and embraced him roughly, pressing his face into Michael's neck. Michael was surprised to find that Francis was trembling. He put his arms around Francis' neck and held him tightly, not sure what to say. He was aware of Legs moving back into the living area on soft catlike feet, silent and a little sinister.

            "You scared me, darling," whispered Francis into Michael's ear before releasing him from his embrace. Michael blinked up at him; Francis' hands were on his shoulders, his fingers gripping him tightly, and the look on his face was one of profound relief. "I didn't know where you'd gone. I was afraid for you."

            "Why?" asked Michael in surprise. "What did you think had happened? I might've been at the mall or something."

            Francis just shook his head, eyes shut tight. Whatever it was he had feared, he obviously wasn't going to share his thoughts with Michael. That was just as well, he thought; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know what it was Francis was afraid could happen. After that odd strained afternoon in L.A. it could have been anything. Then with a lurch Michael remembered something.

            "I didn't leave you a note," he said contritely. "I didn't even call and leave a message on the answering machine. I'm so sorry, Francis, I didn’t mean to scare you."

            "You couldn't have left a note. Legolas wouldn't have let you." Francis released him and turned back to Legs, who was standing watching them, a sly smile on his pretty face. "Well?" he said a little defensively. "May I take him back now? Are you quite finished?"

            "Naw, mate," smiled Legs. "He stays here."

            Michael swallowed hard and looked at Francis, expecting him to argue. To his surprise Francis went pale and looked scared.

            "Until when?" he asked.

            "Until you're finished," said Legs evenly.

            Francis' expression hardened. "I told Gimli and I'm telling you. I won't do it."

            "Yes, you will." Legs walked easily back to the coffee table and knelt down, picked up his chopsticks and selected a piece of tuna. He dipped it in the sauce and put it in his mouth. Francis watched him chewing, his face growing a little desperate. Michael looked from one to the other, positive now which one was the more dominant of the two. Alpha or not, Francis had to submit. Michael could almost feel the pressure, the force emanating from the kneeling figure before them, the pale smooth face half-obscured by a sheet of fine gold hair. Legs flicked out a pink tongue to pick up a stray drop of soy sauce on his lip and Michael shuddered. He glanced at Francis, who was doing a passable imitation of a Man in a Desperate Quandary.

            “I can't," said Francis at last. His voice sounded very small, very unlike his usual incisive tone. Legs didn't look at him but smiled.

            "You're the only one who can," he said simply.

            "It's treason."

            Then Legs looked up at him, blue eyes glinting dangerously. Michael could see his jaw clench, making the little dimple in his cheek disappear. All signs of beauty and serenity and sweetness vanished; he would have sworn he could hear Legs growl, and the room seemed to grow dark.

            "I don't give a flying fuck if you think you're a fuckin' Yank or not. I've given you yer fuckin' marchin' orders, mate. Quit faffing about and do as I fuckin' say."

            Francis flinched back, looking frightened. He retreated a few steps as Legs rose to his feet and approached him, all evidence of good humor erased. The backs of Francis' legs hit the armchair and he stopped, still trying to lean back away from Legs' resolute advance; the taller man went right up against Francis' body, leaning that long slim frame against him, arms rigid, face adamant.

            Francis closed his eyes and turned his face away, biting his lip. Michael wanted to jump between them, protect Francis, but he couldn't; it was as though his feet were nailed to the floor. He watched in horror as Legs lifted one white hand, grabbed Francis roughly by the jaw and forced his face back towards his own.

            "Open yer eyes. Look at me."

            Francis opened his eyes. They were glazed with tears, and Francis seemed to be struggling against something, struggling against Legs, even though he wasn't moving. Legs' neon-blue eyes seemed almost to glow with an intense light, and a feeling of heavy pressure settled on Michael's shoulders, making him want to sink to his knees and cover his head; there was a sound like a thick throbbing in his ears.

            After a long horrible moment Francis whispered: "All right. I'll do it."

            The feeling of pressure lifted, and the lights seemed to brighten; Michael took a deep breath, surprised to find he'd been holding it. Legs smiled, and his face softened; the fingers gripping Francis' face gentled, stroking his cheek soothingly, though Francis flinched back from his touch.

            "Good boy," he whispered, and reaching his face up he kissed Francis tenderly on the forehead.


	6. The Artist's Model

**The Artist's Model**

 

 

            Michael ended up in Legs' rooms at The Lido for three days. When on that first night he attempted to protest his confinement, pleading work responsibilities, Francis told him brusquely that he might as well kiss his job good-bye and get over it. Michael had burst into tears, hoping that would sway if not Francis then at least Legs, but both men had studied him carefully and not a little sympathetically; finally Legs came forward, put his arms around Michael's shoulders, and said,

            "There you are, then, Mary-Ann – no need to start the abdabs, won't do you a fuckin' bit of good. Bloody well stuck here and you'd best keep yer pecker up."

            Hoping to sting Francis into a more compassionate state of mind, Michael nestled into Legs' embrace and sniffled against his throat. The skin was soft, hairless and fragrant, like a woman's, but the arms around him were strong and muscular, and he could see the Adam’s apple move when Legs spoke.

            "Am I your prisoner then?" he'd asked. It did sound a touch histrionic but he couldn't help it; after the past week of unnerving surprises he felt he deserved to flash a bit of melodrama.

            "You can think that way if it makes yer feel any better," Legs had said, voice thick with humor; Michael could hear it resonating in his chest. "Come on, then, Mary-Ann; give yer boyfriend a kiss. He's got an arseload of elbow-grease and he'll get fuck-all done rabbiting round here."

            So Michael and Francis had kissed, right in front of Legs, and then Legs had taken Francis by the elbow and led him out of the suite. Francis had been looking behind him when the door closed between them; Michael could see the wistful look in his eyes, and felt a little better. Francis was going to miss him. That wasn't so bad.

            The first day was actually quite pleasant. It was nice really to just sit around and relax, watch whatever he liked on the television, order whatever he wanted from Room Service, not even shower or shave if he didn't want to.

            The next day was not as nice. He woke up late, then had the panicky thought that Today was The Day when Francis would come back for him; he'd rushed to the bathroom to go through an elaborate toilet, dressed in the clothes Legs had left for him, and waited. And waited. And waited some more. He had lunch, he waited; he had dinner, he waited; at last, disappointed and a little angry, he'd gone to bed, feeling like he was wasting his time.

            The third day he woke up on time, went through his shower-shave-and-pluck ritual with studied indifference, fixed his hair, dressed and decided to do something constructive with his time. He watched two educational programs on TV. Then he had a light healthy lunch, with poached fish and lots of vegetables. Then he watched an opera on TV. He found himself enjoying it, much to his surprise; he recognized the composer's name – Strauss – something about a bat – it was funny, entertaining. When it was over he picked up the Room Service menu with a sigh. He was getting a little tired of Gourmet. Could he risk ordering a pizza or something? He had a little money in his wallet –

            There was a thump and crash behind him, and he jumped, heart in his throat. The balcony door had swung violently open, and Legs, his hair disheveled and his face streaked with sweat, burst into the room, looked around until he saw Michael, and stalked toward him, his face grim and set.

            "Legs!" squeaked Michael; irrationally he felt that his pizza ruminations had brought the Wrath of Legs upon him and he felt a little guilty. "What – "

            "Where's yer wallet, yer shoes?" Legs snapped, his blue eyes flicking over the floor. "Hurry it up, now. Come on, Mike, shoes, where are they?"

            "I … uh … " Michael cast about wildly, saw his wallet on the side table and picked it up. Just as he slipped it into his back pocket he saw Legs leap smoothly over to the far corner of the couch; had he just taken five feet from a crouch without any visible effort? Legs picked up his shoes and thrust them toward him, looking angry.

            "Put 'em on," he barked. His eyes were everywhere, looking from bedroom to doorway to dinette. "Hurry."

            "Uh – " said Michael, but when Legs glared at him he gulped and hurriedly shoved his feet into his shoes, wriggling them down without unlacing them. When he felt his heels nestle into the backs of the shoes, Legs grabbed him roughly by the arm and propelled him unceremoniously through the balcony doors.

            It was early evening, and the traffic was horrible. Michael could hear horns honking and brakes squealing all the way up to the balcony. It was a terribly long way down, and he deliberately turned his face away from the sidewalk far below. But Legs didn't seem to notice; still holding him firmly by his tricep he propelled him to the far end of the balcony, round the corner to the back side of the hotel that faced another large building. It was darker there, and they looked down upon an alley. Legs pushed him to the fire exit.

            "Down," he said curtly.

            "But – " began Michael, turning pale; he was horribly afraid of heights. But the burning anger in Legs' face was even more frightening, and swallowing heavily Michael put tentative hands on the fire escape rails; they felt cold and rough.

            He felt a push on his back; Legs was hurrying him along, looking behind and above them as they descended. The further down Michael climbed the less terrible it seemed, though that last storey was pretty bad; Legs pushed in front of him, dropped easily to the ground, swung the stairs down, and gestured impatiently to him. Michael turned around and clambered down, his back to Legs; when he turned he saw a large blue car – it looked like an old-model American sedan of some sort – lurch wildly around the corner and come directly toward them.

            Michael screamed, sure they were going to be hit, but the car screeched to a stop a mere six inches from the backs of Leg's knees. He didn't even flinch, just glanced back, grabbed Michael by the collar, and hauled him around to the rear door, which he opened, and unceremoniously dumped Michael on the seat. Then the car door slammed shut and the car was thrown into reverse, backed up quickly, and reeled out onto the street.

            Michael was flung from the long low vinyl seat onto the floor of the car. It was stained and smelled of mold and stale cigarette smoke. He pushed himself up onto his hands, his heart in his throat, and peeked cautiously over the back of the front seat. The man in the front was concentrating on driving; all he could see was the back of a head, curly black hair; he glanced up into the rear view mirror and saw large blue eyes glance back at his reflection, then return to the horrors of the rush-hour traffic. There was another lurch and Michael fell onto the floor again with a grunt.

            "I'd stay down if I were you," said the driver in a light, low voice; he sounded calm but very focused. Michael closed his eyes and lay still.

            He was rocked back and forth every time the car accelerated or braked, and was flung from side to side whenever they rounded a corner. This went on for nearly an hour, then Michael could tell they had reached a portion of road far from the city, because they sped up, and there was very little, if any, deceleration – only the occasional lane change, heralded by the steady click-click-click of the turn signals. It was growing dark and Michael could see other cars' headlights bob crazily by, flashing in the car windows and rushing away.

            "You can sit up now," said the driver calmly.

            Cautiously Michael pushed himself upright, and slid slowly onto the vinyl seat. He looked out the car windows. They were speeding along a highway outside the city; he could see a few stars glinting in the lavender sky above them, but he had no idea where they were. He looked up at the driver. He was watching him through the rear view mirror again, his blue eyes crinkled up like he was smiling.

            "So you're Michael," said the driver.

            Michael swallowed nervously. Did everyone in L.A. and San Diego know his name? His mouth felt very dry, like it was filled with cotton, and his head ached from smelling the stale mold and cigarette smoke. "Yes," he said.

            "My name's Frodo," said the driver, his eyes going back to the highway. "We'll be driving for a while, so you might as well get comfy."

            Michael slid tentatively back in his seat, looking around warily. It was a pretty old car, with hand-crank windows and torn vinyl, though at one time it must've been pretty nice; it was covered in chrome and faux wood finish, and had little opera lights by the back windows. One of these was broken.

            "So how long have you known Faramir?" asked Frodo, as though he were making simple and polite conversation.

            Michael paused. Faramir? Isn't that what Professor White and everyone else he'd met lately had called Francis? Could he be certain that's what this, this guy meant – what had he said his name was – Frito or something?

            "You mean Francis?" he asked. His voice sounded very small and shaky.

            "Yes, of course, Francis," said the driver. "I keep forgetting."

            Forgetting what? Francis' name? Michael couldn't really feel too indignant; after all he couldn't remember what this – Frito – had said his name was.

            "Uh – about a year," said Michael.

            Frito nodded. "I thought so," he said absently, scratched the back of his head. His hands were small and white, and looked as though they'd never performed any manual labor; they were almost like girl's hands. He looked back at Michael in the mirror again. "You're very pretty. I can see why he likes you so much."

            Michael blushed; this was a very strange conversation. "Um."

            "It's okay. I'm bisexual but you're not my type."

            "Oh. Uh …"

            "I tend to prefer more masculine guys. Or dark haired girls. No offense."

            Michael didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Still Frito drove them on into the night, away from the city. Michael looked out the window. He could see the occasional rise of a hill against the night sky, some vegetation, but he had no idea where they were.

            "I wish I knew how to find the North Star," he thought miserably. He wondered where Francis was, and suddenly missed him very much. It wouldn't be so bad if Francis were here with him, sitting beside him, calm, quiet, competent, controlled; he would be so protective, so safe. Michael wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered. He was afraid – his heart felt like lead and his limbs were weak. Even Legs would have been preferable to this.

            Could he ask where they were going? Frito seemed very nice but he wasn't exactly forthcoming. But before Michael could screw up his courage to ask, there was a high-pitched trilling noise – a cell phone. He saw the driver pick up a head set, fit it to his ear with the microphone by his mouth, and push a button. "Frodo," he said.

            That's right – Frodo, not Frito. Two O's. He'd have to try to remember that.

            There was a long pause, then Frodo sighed. The eyes in the rear view mirror looked suddenly hurt. "Shit," he said.

            He listened a few minutes more. Then he said, "All right. Dammit. No, all right. Yeah, he's fine. We'll be there in an hour." Then he pushed another button and yanked the headset off. "Shit," he said again. He sounded angry. Michael could see his face in the rear view mirror; his lips were pursed and his jaw clenched.

            "What is it?" he asked tentatively.

            "Got you out just in time," said Frodo shortly. "Five dead."

            It was like an icicle slipping into his chest. "What?" he whispered.

            "The bomb. At The Lido. Killed five."

            Michael felt himself spiraling down. It was very dark and something was rushing, roaring in his ears. He saw sparkles in front of his eyes and he was shaking. Dead. Five people dead. A bomb. This was – this was not something he could understand, not something he could wrap his head around. All the Not-Discussed topics seemed to be looming over him. The name Faramir. Professor White. Legs. The veiled unfriendliness of the lunch at Café Deo Volente. Something illegal, that they were forcing Francis to do. Legs' authority, that unmatchable compulsion to obey him. And five people dead, for some unknown reason, but which obviously had to do with him. He realized he was hiding his face in his hands and Frodo was speaking to him, in a calm, soothing, authoritative voice.

            "It's not your fault, you know. You're not the one they were trying to kill. They were targeting Legolas, not you. They knew you were in there and thought Legolas was with you. They didn't care if you died or not, but the one they really wanted to kill was him. This has nothing to do with you."

            Michael dragged his breath in with a sob. Then the car slowed and went bumpity-bump over rough gravel, and stopped. Frodo turned, his arm resting on the back of the seat, looking at him.

            "This has nothing at all to do with you, Michael," he said, reaching around and touching him lightly on the knee. His large blue eyes were full of pity and compassion. "This wasn't supposed to happen. The concierge talked to the wrong people at the wrong time, that's all."

            "If it has nothing to do with me," said Michael, startled to hear his voice shake and quaver, and to feel tears streaming down his cheeks, "why was I even there?"

            Frodo gave a smile, but it was an ironic one, pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You can blame Legolas for that," he said dryly. "Or Faramir, I guess. You were there to ensure Faramir's – " He paused, looked around absently, searching for a word. " – Participation," he said at last.

            Michael sat and looked at him, shoulders still heaving, tears still dribbling down his cheeks. Frodo watched him, large blue eyes sympathetic but the lush red mouth pressed into an uncompromising line. Finally something seemed to click for Michael.

            "You're the one he painted," he blurted suddenly. "At the gallery, I saw you, I saw your portrait. A nude study. I saw you."

            Frodo laughed; he threw his head back, ran his fingers through the black curls. Then he turned around and put the car back into gear, and pulled back onto the highway.

            "He paints me a lot," said Frodo, smiling at Michael in the rear view mirror. "I’m always at his house, see – it's so peaceful there, I like to do my writing in the guest room. So I sit for him as payment – like rent, see?"

            "Oh," said Michael. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat back onto the cold vinyl seat, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He stared out of the car window, watching vague dark shapes whip by, watching the occasional car pass them on the other side of the highway.

            After almost an hour, Frodo exited onto a dark deserted road; they climbed into the mountains, the car's big engine hardly making any noise as it shifted easily, pulling up and up and up. Michael's ears popped twice. It grew even darker, so dark all he could see were bushes and rocks bobbing and wavering in the car's head lights. Then Frodo turned off that road onto a gravel one. Pebbles pinged and donged the under-carriage, and the car jostled and bumped.

            Michael wondered what time it was. About an hour after sunset, maybe more. Still they jolted and bounced along, Frodo manhandling the huge car with ease. After a while, Michael saw something besides bushes and rocks in their headlights, something large and metal and curved, but as soon as it came into view Frodo cut the lights and everything was dark dark dark.

            They pulled up, slowed down, and stopped. Frodo turned off the car, opened the door, and got out. But Michael sat still, heart hammering in his throat. Now Frodo had him where he wanted him. Now that dissolute, wise, unhappy-faced man could have his way with him and no one would know, they were alone, Michael was alone.

            His door was jerked open and someone grabbed him, hauled him out. He tried to fight but he was too frightened; his limbs felt weak, and anyway whoever had him was very strong –

            Then he was pulled into a rough embrace; powerful men's arms holding him tight, a stubbled cheek rubbing his neck, a familiar fragrance –

            "Michael – oh, god."

            It was Francis.

            Michael melted into his lover's arms. All the fear, anxiety, boredom, apprehension and terror of the past three days bled out of him and he felt his heart soar. Francis' hands were clutching his back, Francis' breath was in his hair, Francis' chest was pressed up to his and he could hear the quick hammer of his heart. Francis was there, holding him. But – Francis was frightened.

            Then Michael was frightened again. Maybe Francis had been captured too. These strange people, this Lego – something – Legs – and those others – they were so antagonistic to Francis – something had gone wrong –

            But Francis pulled back, took Michael by the shoulders. Michael could just see his face in the dim dark light, framed by stars and the dark branches of trees. The air was cool, and smelled piney and fresh, and it was quiet, though Michael could hear voices further away, and the clink of metal on metal. Francis' hand was on Michael's cheek, caressing him; when he spoke it was with deep relief.

            "I'm so glad you're all right. Oh god, I thought I'd lost you."

            Then Michael was pulled into an embrace again, and he hugged Francis enthusiastically back. Oh, this was nice, this was very nice; obviously they were safe now, and Francis just as obviously felt enough for him to have been concerned for his welfare, and to be relieved he was all right. Michael felt warmth spread through his chest at the thought. Francis was normally so reserved that he never knew whether he was liked or just tolerated most of the time – this was rather telling evidence that mere tolerance was not enough. "Francis LIKES me!" he thought over and over to himself, like a mantra; it was surprisingly soothing.

            "I'm okay," Michael said into Francis' shoulder. What was Francis wearing – a flannel shirt? And he had obviously not shaved since Michael had seen him at The Lido. That was a first. "Frodo took good care of me. I'm okay."

            Footsteps crunching toward them, two dark figures approached. A hand reached out, touched Michael's shoulder, a man's hand, gentle but strong. "Everything all right here?" asked the man. Michael recognized his voice – it was Dr. Walker.

            "I'm all right," said Michael, feeling reassured; of all the people he had met the last week, Dr. and Mrs. Walker were perhaps the least frightening of them all. This was a good sign. But when Francis spoke he sounded angry.

            "No, it's not all right," he said, his voice shaking. "What the hell was Legs thinking, going off like that? Michael could've been killed."

            "But he wasn't, was he?" It was Frodo's voice, he was standing beside Dr. Walker. "It's okay, we got him out. Don't go ballistic, man."

            "He shouldn't have been there in the first place," muttered Francis. He pulled Michael in close again, pressing him against his chest. Michael could hear his heart fluttering by his ear. He wound his arms around Francis' waist and squeezed, eliciting a little huffing noise from his lover. "Dragging in innocent people – "

            "Well, Faramir, if you'd done what he'd asked in the first place – "

            "Don't give me that shit." Francis sounded very angry. "It was incredibly irresponsible of him, putting Michael in harm's way – "

            "Hush!"

            It was Mrs. Walker's voice; Michael could see a pale glimmer of white in the corner of his eye and turned toward it. Mrs. Walker was standing there, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, clad in plain black clothes. The white glow seemed to be coming off her skin, which was ridiculous; it must've been the reflection of some sort of light. She walked by them, perfectly silent on the noisy gravel, drifting almost; she stood by the turn in the road, her head cocked. Then Michael could hear it too – the rumble and brap of a heavy engine, downshifting around a corner.

            Michael held his breath, pressed closer in to Francis' side. What was this? Had they been followed by – by – whoever it was had set off the bomb in the hotel and killed five people? Was that it? What were they going to do? Were they all going to Die Horribly? But then he looked around, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw the people standing around him. Francis, upright and stiff and strong. Dr. Walker, head raised, eyes calm. Frodo, relaxed, hands in pockets. Two other figures, bulky and obscured in the dark, but still and ready. And Mrs. Walker, incongruous, slight, but emanating a sort of power of her own, slim, strong, prepared.

            The engine noise grew nearer, and now Michael could hear tires scraping and sliding on the gravel. A wavering, bobbing light from a head light emerged from the darkness, spinning, nodding, flashing over rocks and bushes and trees. Then with a final burst of noise a motorcycle came into view, cut its light, and coasted up to them. Pale white-blue light glowed up off the head of the driver, and Michael could see the long pallid hair flowing down the rider's shoulders.

            He cut the engine and dismounted. But there was a difference in that long lean body; the kinetic twitchy energy seemed dimmed, the shoulders slumped. He trudged up to them, though Michael noted with surprise that he, like Mrs. Walker, seemed to make no noise when he walked.

            "Well?" asked Dr. Walker.

            "Seven," said Legs shortly. He was holding something in his hands, something that gleamed dully. "Last two were mine."

            "The concierge?"

            "Yeah, and an agent." Legs sat heavily down on the car fender, put his head in his hands. "Fuck," he said, and there was silence again.

            Michael expected Francis to start berating Legs, expected him to start yelling at him for putting Michael in danger. But all the anger seemed to have drained out of Francis with Legs' admission. Instead there was a hesitant sympathy to his voice when he said:

            "Patriots?"

            "Yeah. Fuck it all. I hate killing people who think they're doing what's right. Fuck."

            Michael went very cold. Legs had killed two people. He'd hated doing it and he'd done it anyway. Patriots. He'd killed two patriots. The concierge and an agent of some sort. Michael remembered the concierge, remembered the speculative look the man had given him when he'd arrived at The Lido. He thought about that man, that well-groomed middle-aged man in the suit, dead. Then he remembered what Francis had said the first night he'd ever seen Legs. Legs is dangerous. Stay away from him. Do what he tells you. Are you frightened of him? Stay frightened of him.

            But Michael looked at the slumped shoulders, drooping head, hands limply holding the closed switchblade, fingers stained dark, and felt a surge of sympathy for a man who had to do something detestable, whether he wanted to or not, and felt lousy about it afterwards. Life sucked sometimes, even when you were beautiful and amusing and smart and strong like Legs.

            He pulled out of Francis' embrace, walked tentatively over to the mournful figure. He put one hand gently on the stiff muscular shoulder, feeling it flinch beneath his touch. The pale face turned, eyes glinting up at him through the curtain of white hair.

            "Thank you for saving my life," he said, and slowly, hesitantly, Legs smiled at him.


	7. The Airplane

**The Airplane**

 

 

            Michael sat on the fender of the car where Legs had sat. Lego – something – what was it Frodo had called him? Fritos and Legos, these people had such odd names. And Faramir. What did Faramir mean, and why did these people call Francis that?

            He felt very small, very insignificant, and very ignorant. Francis and his – not his friends, his, his co-workers, he supposed he could call them – they were moving equipment, talking together in low concise voices, discussing things that didn't make sense to him – computer banks, something called ISPs and USBs, people called crackers and hackers and pirates. It was very computer-y and Michael barely even knew how to work the simple IBM console at the store.

            That thought was rather depressing. No job. And if Francis were doing something illegal, involving killing people, then Francis wouldn't have a job either, would probably go to jail if they got caught. No job, no apartment, boyfriend in jail. That wasn't a nice prospect. Even if Michael could convince the authorities that he had been held hostage pending Francis' good behavior, he doubted it would make much of a difference. What, oh what would his parents say? His sister? That was depressing, too. He had been looking forward to Pauline's visit, looking forward to introducing her to Francis. Look at my new boyfriend; he's smart, he's got a good job, he takes good care of me. Tell Mom and Dad I'm happy and doing well. Well. No more. Soon there would be no job, no boyfriend, no happiness. And all because of something Legs was making Francis do.

            He supposed he ought to be resentful of Legs. He looked over, saw the faint glimmer of white – what was it about Legs' and Mrs. Walker's skin, that made it look as though they were glowing in the starlight? They must be very pale, that's all. Legs was wheeling his motorcycle up the ramp into the back of the airplane. Thick, fat-bodied, rusty old airplane. Michael didn't know much about the smaller planes – hell, he didn't even know the difference between an Airbus and a 727 – but this one didn't exactly inspire him to confidence. It was obviously very old; the caged light hanging from a hook in the doorway showed torn rows of bench seats, boxes stacked up, old equipment.

            Legs and the motorcycle disappeared into the body of the plane. Then he came out again, Grim by his side. Grim was speaking to him in a low voice, his big thick meaty hand on Legs' elbow. Michael could see their faces in the dim light. Grim looked worried, his bushy eyebrows puckered; Legs looked tired, unhappy, shamefaced.

            "Still upset about those two people," Michael thought. He couldn't really be angry at Legs. Besides, Legs was so Pretty. Like Mrs. Walker. Michael wondered if they were related; they sort of looked alike. But then Legs spoke with a British accent and Mrs. Walker was obviously American, so it was very unlikely.

            Frodo approached, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket and taking out the car keys. "Gonna be okay, Mike?" he asked, his voice light and friendly and uncaring.

            "Does it matter if I won't?" asked Michael unhappily. Frodo chuckled.

            "Well, no, not really." He opened the car door. "I’m leaving. Got any messages for Pauline?"

            Michael opened his mouth to reply, but the implications of this suddenly staggered him. Frodo was not only leaving him behind; he knew his sister's name and was planning on speaking with her. Now Michael started to feel frightened again. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice quavering.

            Frodo patted him on the shoulder. "Relax. I'm not going to off her or anything. I'm no assassin – that's Legolas' job. It's just that you might be gone for a while and I don't want her to worry about you."

            "Oh!" Michael thought about that. He was only marginally comforted. How could Frodo know how long Michael would be away? But the idea that Frodo didn't want Pauline to worry was Nice. "Tell her I'm with Francis and I'm okay," he said, not sure what else he could say. "And tell her I love her and Mom and Dad and everything's going to be all right."

            "Okay," said Frodo. He got into the car and Michael stood up. No sense sitting on the fender of a moving car, after all. Michael wasn't sure whether he wanted to go with Frodo or be with Francis. Either option scared him. He stood back and watched Frodo start up the car and back out of the clearing. Then it turned, the head lights went on, and it lurched and bumped over the road, turned the corner, and disappeared.

            Someone walked up behind him and he turned. It was Doris. She looked a little frightened too, but also kind of excited. "Well," she said, watching the red glow of the taillights fade, "this is it."

            Michael swallowed hard. "I don't want to do this," he confessed. Of all the people here, Francis included, Doris seemed the least odd, and he desperately needed to confide in someone. Doris smiled and took his hand. Her fingers were cold but steady.

            "I don't either, really," she admitted. "But Grim's doing it and where he goes, I go."

            Michael stared at her. This plain, dumpy woman, with her butch haircut and shabby clothes, suddenly seemed very Noble and Grand and Self-sacrificing. Michael felt foolish. Shouldn't he feel the same way? Shouldn't he be so in love with Francis that he'd be willing to say the same thing? "I wish I was brave like you," he blurted, squeezing her hand. Doris laughed.

            "Brave? Hell, I'm scared shitless," she said, smiling at him. "This is so not like me. Do you know what I was doing ten years ago?"

            Michael shook his head mutely.

            "I was an auto insurance agency customer service rep. Divorced, childless, living in a stupid cheap apartment, couldn't even afford to buy a car. Then I met Grim ... " She trailed off, her eyes softening; her face turned, seeking out her lover. It didn't matter that she was unattractive or didn't pluck her eyebrows or wear a bra when she obviously needed to. She loved Grim unthinkingly, and that gave her a sort of effervescent beauty which Michael knew instinctively he lacked. He squeezed her hand again, feeling his heart lighten. If a customer service rep could put her fears aside and stride up that gangplank, then dammit so could he.

            "All right, ready to go," came Mrs. Walker's voice. Doris gripped Michael firmly by the hand and tugged him up to the plane.

            It was cramped and kind of dark inside. The bare bulbs cast a harsh glare over everything, from the netted walls to the shining new computers to the ripped-up seat cushions. It was hollow and echoey too, far too big for the number of people it was carrying. Dr. and Mrs. Walker were sitting side by side in the cockpit, flicking switches and speaking together in low voices. Grim and Francis were kneeling together by one of the computers; Grim was sliding long green studded boards into one of the cases, and Francis was plugging something else in.

            Legs was standing near the back by the two motorcycles, shrugging into a black jumpsuit. Michael could see his smooth muscular chest in the split of the material before he buttoned it up. His pale hair was pulled back into a thick plait, and he had a thin black stocking cap pulled down over his ears.

            Doris led Michael to one of the jump seats and sat down beside him, pulling a seat belt over her lap and buckling it securely. Nervously Michael followed suit, sitting and buckling as well. He wished Francis would look at him, smile and say something, but he was obviously very preoccupied with his computer stuff; he and Grim were speaking together tensely, brows furrowed, gesticulating and twisting knobs and screwing in panels. At last Dr. Walker turned around in the cockpit and peered around the door.

            "Everyone ready?" he asked.

            There was a subdued chorus of agreement and everyone found their seats. Francis sat next to Michael, glanced at him and squeezed his knee. Legs was the only one standing; he held onto the netting with both hands and looked at the floor. Michael stared at Legs' hands. He still had dried blood under his nails. Blood from two innocent people. This thought was repugnant and he turned away, staring at Francis' knee pressed up to his own.

            There was a hollow roar as the airplane's engines came to life. It was horribly loud, louder than any other plane Michael had ever been on. Then it started to move. It was odd, moving in a plane without being able to look out a window and see anything. They bumped and jolted and rocked for a while, the engine noise growing louder and louder until Michael was sure his eardrums would crack; then there was a horrible lurch and they were in the air.

            Michael looked over at Francis. He was sitting calmly, his gray eyes downcast, almost looking bored, as though he did this sort of thing all the time. This did not make Michael feel any better because he knew he'd never be able to ask about it – if Francis' title of "doctor" were a Not-Discussed, how much more what they were doing!

            Michael realized he actually knew very little about Francis, despite all the time they'd spent together. Oh sure, he knew Francis' favorite foods, and how he liked his back rubbed, and what positions pleased him the most when they made love, but what did he REALLY know about this man? Not even his name, apparently – nor where he was from, nor what he was really like. He might indeed be a computer programmer, but that was obviously just a tiny part of his repertoire.

            Michael turned to look at Doris. She and Grim were sitting pressed together, fingers entwined; she had turned her face up to his, watching him adoringly, and he leaned down and lightly kissed her, first on the nose, then her cheek and forehead, finally her mouth. Michael wondered if Francis would like to be kissed. But when he turned to him Francis was undoing his seat belt buckle, face preoccupied, and glancing sidelong at Grim said loudly over the roar of the airplane engines:

            "Well, we might as well get started."

            Grim sighed, gave Doris one last kiss. "Okay," he boomed, and he too rose to his feet and staggered over to the computers.

            They sat facing each other across the bank of tan boxes, each with two monitors and two keyboards. Francis started clicking away, the light from the monitor flickering over his face, his lips pressed into a thin line. Michael recognized this look; it was his I'm-Working expression that he wore when he had to work from home. Michael knew what it meant, too – it meant Leave Francis Alone. So he sat back and watched.

            Doris watched too, her gaze going from Grim to Francis to Legs. Legs especially seemed to concern her; he was pulling on a backpack of sorts, tying it firmly around his chest and belly. Doris shouted over the deafening noise of the plane.

            "Shouldn't there be buckles or locks or something on that? What if it comes off?"

            "Metal detectors," yelled Legs. He looked preoccupied. "If it slips, I die. But it won't, good at tying fucking knots, luv."

            Doris looked unconvinced. Then Michael's heart leaped. Legs was putting a gun in one of the pockets of his jump suit and lacing it shut.

            "Isn't a gun made of metal?" he yelled.

            "Plastic," shouted Legs. Grim looked up, irritated.

            "POLYMER!" he roared.

            Legs grinned for the first time that night, reigniting his dimples, and Michael felt a little better. If Legs were sufficiently recovered to tease Grim, maybe he was starting to return to his old self. It had been unnerving to see that brash loud man turn quiet and reflective; it had been most unnatural. This was definitely an improvement.

            Legs walked over to the back of the plane. There was a small door there; the handle had been enameled red at one time but that had mostly worn off, and the steel beneath was chipped and scratched. Only half of the warning sign on it was left, its black and yellow stripes faded and torn. "JUMP DOOR," Michael read. His heart started to pound.

            Legs picked up a bucket of something, put his hand in it, and when he withdrew it it was black and powdery. Then he put the bucket down and started smearing the black all over his face.

            "Well?" It was Dr. Walker yelling from the cockpit.

            "Hijacking the ISP," Francis yelled back. He looked anxious, his eyebrows puckered, and he was worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. His and Grim's fingers danced over their keyboards. Michael looked at Doris. She was watching Grim now, her face set and tense. Michael swallowed. Whatever they were doing, obviously it was against some sort of time constraint.

            Legs had finished blacking his face and was pulling on thin black gloves. Now he was almost completely obscured by black, black jumpsuit, black parachute bag, black hat. He stood by the door and watched, his pale eyes calm.

            Francis and Grim were working frantically now. Finally Grim yelled, "Will they let you in?"

            Francis shook his head, but it was to get the hair out of his eyes. "They should," he answered, still typing away at a frenetic pace, his face pulsing and flickering with the light from the computer monitor. "Oh, shit," he said.

            "Firewall?" yelled Grim.

            "Yes. Shit." Francis typed faster. "Oh god. Yes. Okay. Here it comes."

            Grim was tracking something. "Got it," he finally shouted, sounding satisfied; there was another hectic fifteen minutes and at last Francis exclaimed, "SHIT!"

            Dr. Walker poked his head round the cockpit door. "Ten minutes to drop," he yelled equably.

            "Waiting for that entry password," said Grim.

            "I'll get it, dammit," said Francis through gritted teeth. He was sweating freely now, his dark hair plastered to his head, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Come on … come on … let me in, dammit; you know who I am …"

            Michael was finding it hard to breathe. He looked at Legs. Legs was standing motionless by the jump door, watching Francis calmly, trustingly. More anxious typing, then Grim yelled, "First level!" and Francis groaned.

            "Five minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

            "In!" yelled Francis. His hands were moving so fast Michael could hardly see them. "Almost there – almost – "

            Grim got up, staggered to a box bolted to the floor. He opened it and pulled out another box, plastic with a heavy seal. Taking Swiss Army knife from his pocket he broke the seal and removed two long rectangular objects. He stood, swaying with the movements of the airplane, watching Francis work, tapping his booted foot nervously.

            "Four minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

            "Shit!" Francis pounded mercilessly on his keyboard, teeth gritted, eyes unblinking. Mrs. Walker got up and rounded the corner.

            "Do we need to take another pass?" she shouted.

            "NO!" bellowed Francis furiously. "You'll fuck everything up, they'll see us! Give me a minute!"

            "Three minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

            "Shit!"

            Grim turned, looked at Legs. Legs regarded him calmly.

            "He can do it," said Legs. "Trust him."

            Francis' eyes flickered over to Legs; he seemed unsure. Then he turned back to the keyboard and renewed his efforts.

            "Two minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

            "Found it!" exclaimed Francis. Grim sat down, started pounding on his own keyboard. Michael looked at his boyfriend. His face was flushed, sweaty, but he was grinning now. "There you are, you little sonofabitch – YES!" He clattered away, saying, "Come on now – come on, dammit – oh shit – no, I've got it – "

            "One minute," shouted Dr. Walker. Mrs. Walker stood, her hand on the lintel, watching. Doris stood up and staggered over to Legs, hanging onto the netting to keep herself upright. When she reached the door Legs wrapped a harness around her torso, clipped it to a hook in the wall, and pulled it tight. She leaned up, kissed him on the cheek; Michael couldn't hear what she said to him but it looked like, "Good luck."

            Michael looked at Francis and Grim. Their hands were flying now, fingers blurs on the keyboards. At once Grim gave a bellow and Francis shouted, "Got it!" Grim shoved one of the rectangular devices into the side of Francis' computer.

            "Thirty seconds," shouted Dr. Walker. Michael felt irrationally like slapping him.

            "Done!" yelled Francis, still clattering on his keyboard. Grim pulled out the rectangular device, threw it at Legs who caught it deftly, and slapped in the second one.

            "Fifteen," shouted Dr. Walker.

            "Not yet," Michael heard Legs yell. He turned to him; Legs had been talking to Doris, who was gripping the chipped door handle with both hands, her knuckles white. She looked very frightened.

            "Got it!" yelled Francis. Grim pulled out the second device and threw it at Legs. He tucked both of them in a pocket, tied it shut.

            "Time!" shouted Dr. Walker.

            Doris pulled the handle and jerked on the door. When it opened everything in the plane started to rattle and bang, and a huge rushing wind whistled past them out the door. Michael screamed when a book came flashing by him, grazing his cheek; he saw it flit out the door and disappear into the tumultuous darkness.

            Legs braced himself in the doorway. Michael saw him pause, looking into the blackness below him, a dark slim figure with his long pale plait streaming out past his cheek. Then he jumped and vanished.

            Doris struggled with the door until Grim crawled over. He helped her swing it shut, and they both turned the handle, locking it. The rushing wind stopped and even over the roar of the engines it seemed a lot quieter. Michael looked at Francis; he was hanging onto his keyboards, his hair in disarray; one of the computers had fallen over and was pinning his knee to the desk. Dr. Walker left the cockpit and went over to him, maneuvering Francis' leg out and checking it.

            "That was close," he yelled, grinning up at Francis. And Francis grinned right back.


	8. The Nighttime Desert

**The Nighttime Desert**

 

 

            Dr. Walker landed the plane on what he claimed was a relatively flat stretch of desert, but the ensuing mayhem felt more as though they'd actually crashed into something; Michael got so jostled and banged about he was sure he'd be bruised on his backside for a week.

            Dr. Walker suffered a lot of chaff from Grim and Mrs. Walker, who told him he was a better sailor than a pilot; Dr. Walker had just smiled his good-natured smile and given them the finger.

            The equipment got banged about too; when Michael commented on the smashed screens and scattered motherboards, Francis had simply shrugged one elegant shoulder.

            "We got what we wanted out of it," he said.

            Michael stared at the pile of equipment. He had spent five years scrimping and saving just to get by on an interior decorator's salary, and frugality had become almost second nature to him. He knew the stuff must've cost a lot of money, and couldn't imagine just throwing it away. "You're just going to leave it here?" he asked disbelievingly.

            "Course not!" bellowed Grim, wheeling a long low motorcycle past them out the cargo door. "Can't leave it lying around. Someone'd figure out what we did with it."

            "What DID you do with it?" asked Michael, confused.

            "Hacked into the proprietary files at my old company," said Francis serenely. He was loading up small bits of equipment, mostly things that looked like discarded cell phone parts, into a small backpack where they mixed and jumbled with the granola bars and cans of energy drink already there. "I needed a copy of a piece of software I'd helped write."

            "You STOLE it?" Michael felt like he ought to be horrified but truthfully he was very impressed. Francis saw the look of approbation on his face and smiled.

            "Please, darling," he said dryly; "borrowed. I only borrowed it."

            "We took it without asking or paying for it, didn't we?" asked Mrs. Walker with a laugh as she passed them; one arm was loaded with old wool blankets, and in her other hand she held a red jug of gasoline. Even shed of her expensive habiliments and perfect little hat, of her gloves and designer shoes and expertly applied makeup, she looked in her ratty black jumpsuit just as beautiful and well-groomed as ever; her skin had the luster of freshly-polished abalone, her eyes glowed pale silvery-gray and her black hair was glossy and smooth.

            Michael sighed enviously after her – he spent so much time and effort on his appearance; to see someone achieve perfection with little to no exertion was Really Unfair. Then he felt light pressure and body heat against his back and shoulders, and smelled his lover's clean scent.

            "Don't worry," came Francis' voice, deep and sultry and full of promise, whispering round the whorl of Michael's ear and making him come out in gooseflesh. "I think blonds are MUCH more attractive."

            The first thrill of gratification that had shivered through Michael was doused by the memory of Legs' own flawlessness, the sapphire eyes and the sheet of pale hair that lay over his shoulders; he gave another sigh, even more melancholic, and to his surprise Francis wound one long arm round his stomach and pulled him up close.

            "Thinking of my ex?" he asked, his dark voice edged with wry humor. "Don't worry, darling – all I see is you."

            "Really?" Michael twisted in Francis' embrace, tipping his face up to see him. Francis was smiling, his pale eyes hooded; his aquiline nose cast a sharp shadow over his cheek. Even with Francis' stubbled chin and rather battered flannel shirt Michael was once again overwhelmed by his physical beauty, and felt as though his heart were melting right inside his chest. "Oh please, let him love me," he prayed to whatever deity might be handy. "Please please please let him never ever leave me!"

            "Get a move on, lovebirds," Dr. Walker said as he passed, the chuckle inherent in his voice; Francis released Michael, gave him a teasing squeeze on his backside, and turned to exit the plane.

            Mrs. Walker was standing at the bottom of the ramp, holding something in her hands that looked a lot like the controls for a remote-control airplane. Michael could hear Grim muttering and banging around under the plane but couldn't see him; Doris was standing in the way, occasionally handing him a screwdriver or some other tool.

            Three motorcycles waited in a row, leaning on their kickstands; Legs' stretched-out monstrosity, and two shorter, fatter bikes, one black and one red. They looked very out of place beside the rusty, decrepit plane; they were glossy and fresh and clean, and looked as though they'd never seen a day's hard riding in their lives.

            Dr. Walker and Francis hefted backpacks onto their shoulders and fastened them around their waists, and at last Grim finished whatever he was doing beneath the plane and came out, wiping his hands on his jeans; Doris gave him an exasperated look but smiled anyway. Michael recognized that look – it was the same look he would give Francis when he would catch him at two in the morning, still sweating away at some recalcitrant computer program, when he'd told Michael at ten-thirty he'd only be "five more minutes."

            "She loves Grim the way I love Francis," he thought, feeling suddenly warm. "She puts up with his funny ways and accepts him the way he is and he loves her right back. She's So Lucky!"

            He looked wistfully over at Francis, who was speaking in an undertone with Dr. Walker; they both looked very serious, and similar too in a way; tall and broad-shouldered and long-legged, with their dark hair and gray eyes. Michael had another epiphany.

            "Francis respects Dr. Walker a lot," he thought, watching them. "It's almost as though Dr. Walker's his boss or something. I wonder why it was Legs and not Dr. Walker to order him around?"

            That got him wondering who was in charge, REALLY in charge – Dr. Walker or Legs? He tried to think back onto the couple of times he'd seen Dr. Walker and Legs interacting together, but couldn't really come to any conclusions; perhaps they were equals? "Either Legs is in charge and he's the one giving all the orders and that's why it was him ordering Francis around," thought Michael, "or Dr. Walker's in charge and Legs is his subordinate and Francis resents anyone but Dr. Walker telling him what to do."

            His ruminations were interrupted by Dr. Walker's voice saying very clearly, "See you in Miami," and Michael, startled, turned to him; then he saw to his dismay that Grim and Doris were mounting the two larger bikes and Doris was strapping on a helmet. Doris couldn't Leave Him! She was the only Normal person there! He hurried up to her, fighting down a feeling of panic, and grabbed her by the arm; she turned to him, her face looking strange behind the heavy helmet.

            "Why are you leaving?" he asked.

            He saw her cheeks bunch up; she had smiled. She patted his hand.

            "I'll see you in a couple of days," she said, and winked; Michael stepped back, and she and Grim started their motorcycles. They waved as they drove away, and Michael waved back, but half-heartedly; he had dearly hoped Doris would stay. Without her, Michael felt very lost; she at least had seemed to be just as scared as he, and he'd taken some comfort in that; but she was gone.

            He stared after them, watching the little red taillights grow fainter and fainter in the clear desert air, then they went down into a little dip in the landscape and disappeared entirely.

            "All right, let's get moving," said Dr. Walker, shifting his backpack. He looked over at Michael, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Michael," he said, "when was the last time you drank some water?"

            "Um," said Michael, trying to think.

            Dr. Walker seemed to take this to mean "a long time ago" and dug a bottle of spring water out of his backpack. "Drink up," he ordered him. "We've got a long way to go."

            That sounded ominous to Michael but he broke the seal and took a gulp. Suddenly he realized he was parched; the feel of the cool liquid caressing his tongue awoke a horrible dryness in his throat and before he knew it he'd downed the entire bottle. When he went to put the top back on he realized the other three were watching him, grinning.

            "Good thing it wasn't a beer," said Dr. Walker, and Michael smiled shyly. Dr. Walker turned to his wife and said, "Be careful, okay?"

            "I know what I'm doing; I've done it before," she said archly, her hand on her hip.

            "I don't mean the plasticine," grinned Dr. Walker. "I mean Legs' Harley."

            "Oh, that," she said, and cast a disdainful eye on it. "Serve him right if I laid it down. Awful color scheme."

            "To give him credit," said Francis with careful solicitousness, "he claims he got it at a discount, and the paint color wasn't his first choice."

            "Cheap bastard," said Mrs. Walker, and Dr. Walker and Francis both laughed. Michael swallowed.

            "Do you think he's okay?" he asked, his voice sounding high and anxious beside theirs. They all turned to him.

            "Who, Legs?" asked Mrs. Walker in surprise. "Hell, yes. Nothing can hurt that sonofabitch. Why do you think we made HIM jump out of the airplane?"

            The other three laughed again, and Michael thought they sounded awfully callous; no matter how many times someone cheated death that didn't necessarily mean Lady Luck would be on their side – in fact, the odds would almost have to be stacked against them, wouldn't they? But then Francis took his hand, and following Dr. Walker they started to trudge into the darkness, leaving Mrs. Walker and the plane behind.

**********************************

 

            Surprisingly enough, considering how his week had gone, Michael's worst fears were not realized. He had asked, about twenty minutes into the walk, where they were going, and Dr. Walker had pointed straight ahead to a large black mass rising against the starry sky. "Top of that mountain there," he'd said, "and down the other side of the ridge into the valley on the other side. We'll be in Arizona then."

            Michael's heart had plummeted. He was in fairly good physical condition (he went to the gym every day, after all; he had to keep his body looking as perfect as possible, so that Francis would continue to be pleased) but wasn't sure he was quite up to THAT kind of hike. But after several hours, and three more bottles of water forced on him by Dr. Walker, they came across a jeep nestled in a dry ravine, and with confidence the two men walked toward it.

            "Is this our jeep?" asked Michael in surprise, looking down at it; it looked as though it had seen better days; the tonneau cover was ripped and one of the headlights smashed.

            "Actually it's Éowyn's," said Dr. Walker. "She bought a new one and said we could use this. Don't worry," he said, smiling up at Michael and unfastening his backpack; "the VIN's been rubbed off and all identifying markers have been removed. It's untraceable."

            Michael stared at it, thinking it was kith and kin to the plane as far as its disreputable, decrepit looks went, and wondering who on earth Éowyn was. Francis was climbing into the driver's seat; he'd pulled a screwdriver out of his backpack and was fiddling around under the drive shaft.

            "I hope it starts," he said petulantly. "This wasn't their most reliable mode of transportation. And as I recall THIS was the jeep whose transmission crapped out twenty miles from the second barn, and Sam and Frodo had to walk all the way back, because Sam didn't have his cell phone with him, and Frodo had forgotten to charge the battery in his." He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Rosie was furious."

            "Rosie stays pissed off. It's her normal condition," said Dr. Walker. "As long as it starts once and gets us where we want to go, I don't care if it never starts again."  He glanced at his watch, pressing a button on the side; Michael saw a little blue glow as the face lit up. "Hm. Better get down here, Mike."

            "That close?" asked Francis in surprise, and when Dr. Walker nodded he gestured to Michael. "Hurry," he said. Skidding on the loose dirt and gravel, Michael slid into the ravine and fetched up with his hands against the cold metal side of the jeep. "Oh," added Francis, turning to him, "you might want to cover your ears."

            Michael opened his mouth to ask why, but at that moment a tremendous explosion rocked the night, and a brilliant flash of light illuminated the entire desert; there was the faintest whisper of air above the surface of the ravine and a couple of rocks tumbled down at them. One of them struck the back of Michael's leg and he cried out, more in shock than pain; Dr. Walker caught him as he staggered against the jeep. He was surprisingly strong.

            "That was impressive," said Francis calmly; he gave the screwdriver a little twist and the jeep sputtered to life. "Thank goodness," he muttered. "Didn't think this thing had any life left in it."

            "You all right?" asked Dr. Walker; Michael nodded, too stunned to speak, and let him bundle him into the jeep. "Good," said Dr. Walker. He looked back up at the lip of the ravine and grinned. "Bet Arwen loved doing that."

            "Yes," said Francis dryly; "Arwen always did love crashing a good party."

            "Now, now," chided Dr. Walker, climbing into the passenger's seat and buckling up. "You're not still upset about the elephant in your garden, are you?" When Francis shot him a dirty look Dr. Walker continued blandly, "I thought it added a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to your birthday celebration."

            "You're not the one who had to explain to Lord Walbeach why his wife had elephant shit all over her shoes," said Francis acidly, and throwing the jeep into gear they jolted forward.

            Francis drove slowly along the ravine floor, not turning on the headlights. Every once in a while an indicator on his cell phone would flash, and they would stop and sit very still; then in the quiet of the desert night he would hear the faint thup-thup-thup of a helicopter far in the distance. After this happened three times the sound was so faint he could hardly hear it at all.

            "Good," said Dr. Walker. "Looks like she led them off."

            "Wh – who, Mrs. Walker?" asked Michael, speaking for the first time since the explosion. Dr. Walker looked over at him with a smile.

            "You know, Mike, you can call us Aragorn and Arwen," he said. "You've certainly earned that right by now."

            "Um," said Michael. He wasn't sure if he could. "It sounds awfully – I don't know – impolite." When the other two men laughed he said peevishly, "Well, you're so – I don't know – so refined, and your first names are a little – um – "

            "Difficult to remember?" asked Dr. Walker. "Well, that's quite all right – call us what you want, Michael."

            "Okay," said Michael, hoping he wouldn't be offended – or worse, laugh at him – when Michael continued to call him Dr. Walker. After all he couldn't even remember Legos and Fritos; how did they expect him to remember all these strange names? "But – the plane – do you mean – did Mrs. Walker – blow it up?"

            "Yes," said Dr. Walker. He held on tightly to the jeep door while Francis negotiated a particularly bumpy patch. "Had to get rid of the evidence."

            "But – your plane – "

            "MY plane?" Dr. Walker laughed again. "Gimme a break. I stole it."

            Francis gave him a cool look, though Michael could see in the faint starlight he was smiling sardonically. "Please, Aragorn," he said. "Not 'stole.' 'Appropriated.'"

            "Right, sorry," chuckled Dr. Walker. "Shit, Faramir, first you 'borrow' a program, then I 'appropriate' an airplane – what verb will you use for what Legolas is about to do?"

            Francis pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then he gave a wicked little smile.

            " 'Erase,' " he said.


	9. Crossing the Rubicon

**Crossing the Rubicon**

 

 

            Francis let the jeep coast down a rocky hill to the dry ravine at the bottom. There was a steep climb up to a dark spiky ridge above them; Dr. Walker only pointed up and said tersely: "Arizona." Francis was also silent, so Michael decided there was nothing urgent to say in response to that, and kept his mouth closed. Then the other two men dug a few things out of the back of the jeep, threw a camouflage tarp over it, and began the stiff pull up the slope.

            The air was thick with the scent of pine and cool stone, and the Milky Way blazed like a shimmering banner in the velvety darkness of the night sky. If Michael had not been so bemused and frightened he would quite have enjoyed their trek up to the top of the last ridge; he could just glimpse bright twinkling stars through the branches of the pinyon pines and blue spruces, and when his feet brushed past the juniper and tea bushes he stirred up a fresh pungent fragrance. And every once in a while he saw a pale sinuous thread, or smooth globe, or irregular patch shaped like some odd amoeba – snow, reflecting back the pale starlight. It reminded him of Mrs. Walker's and Legs' skin. He nestled further down into his shabby down parka, grateful to whomever had had the foresight to put coats in the back of the jeep.

            He found it odd that they walked without benefit of flashlights – not so much that Dr. Walker and Francis wouldn't use them, because if they were approaching something secretly it wouldn't make much sense to advertise their presence with light – but that he discovered he could see fine without one. The stars were bright enough for him to catch a vague outline of the lay of the land, and though at times he stumbled a little over an unseen rock or jutting root, Francis was always there to steady him, and Michael took a great deal of comfort from that.

            The two taller men seemed almost to glide through the woods, their feet making little to no noise on the rough loamy earth; they were obviously very comfortable in this uncultivated environment and went forward confidently, as though this were the sort of thing they did all the time. As far as Dr. Walker went that might be true, thought Michael, for really he knew very little about the man; but Francis' ease in the woods startled and unnerved him; it was unsettling to continually realize he was so unfamiliar with his lover after all.

            The stars were fading in a lightening sky when they came across a fence. And not just any fence, but a fence that seemed to say, with imperious aggression, "KEEP OUT." There were no warning signs, but Michael could see at the top of the chainlink a thick coil of razor wire, and beneath that the colorful stripe of electrified lines, which Michael recognized from a rather humiliating experience with a group of strange boys when he'd spent the summer on his grandfather's farm. He knew all too well what touching one of THOSE felt like –hadn't he been pushed into Grandpa's cow-fences enough times those horrible six weeks?

            Dr. Walker and Francis stood and contemplated it thoughtfully a moment, then turned to each other, coolly questioning. At last Dr. Walker said,

            "Well, if he hasn't, there's no use trying to get in anyway."

            "True," said Francis, and laid his palm on the fence. Michael bit back a cry, then gave a sharp gasp of relief; Francis merely wound his fingers in the chain and turned back to them, a smile tugging his lips. "It would appear he was successful."

            "So far, at least," said Dr. Walker. He took off his backpack and started rooting around in it. "Now let's see if we can spring him."

            Francis took off his own backpack and opened it, pulling out a granola bar, which he handed to Michael. "Here," he said a little absently. "You need to eat something."

            "What about you?" asked Michael, nervously unwrapping it.

            Francis shrugged. "I'll be fine." He then pulled out a pair of wire cutters and joined Dr. Walker at the fence, snipping out a long low portion near the ground until a narrow oval appeared beneath the chainlink, high enough for a reasonably thin man to roll beneath. As all three of them fell into that category (Michael realized with a pang that neither Grim nor Doris would have been able to negotiate the narrow passage) they duly rolled into the Forbidden Territory.

            Dr. Walker went first, spinning smoothly and rising without effort to his feet; Francis gestured Michael next, and he clumsily lay at the opening, staring at the dim chain above him until Francis whispered: "Tuck your arms in around you and keep your chin down." So Michael wrapped his arms around his chest, pressed his chin into his neck, and rolled. He felt the down jacket snag a little on the sharp cut wire, but when he ended up on his back he realized he was staring up at a sapphire sky and fading stars. Astonished at his own audacity, he got to his feet and brushed himself off. There was damp patch on the back of the jacket where he'd rolled over some snow, and prickly pine needles stuck like porcupine quills from the ragged tear in his sleeve, but otherwise it had been rather easy. This surprised him; he had never Broken In to someplace before, and had always assumed it required great Physical Effort; to find it took only a pair of wire cutters and a roll of the body was a little unnerving.

            While he watched Francis roll expertly beneath the fence he caught himself thinking of Legs and how silently he'd managed to insinuate himself into their apartment that first night. Right through the window, too, thought Michael; all his life he'd been so careful about locking doors, and had never thought to check his windows. Well, he'd certainly be more careful from now on. "Shutting the barn door after the horse has been stolen," he thought, remembering his grandfather again, but this time with hesitant affection; the thought of that dour old farmer comforted him somewhat, and he had an irrational wish that he could have introduced Grim and Doris to him. "Grandpa would've liked them," he thought, watching Dr. Walker and Francis strap their backpacks on again. "He always liked people like that, who were loud and grubby and loyal." Where his mother had come from, thought Michael, was anyone's guess.

            By the time they crested the ridge it was quite light. They looked down into a heavily wooded valley, the sharp yellow beams from the sunrise stabbing across the spiny heads of pines and casting sharp cutting shadows in deep blue and purple. There was a cold breeze at their faces and Michael could smell gasoline. He frowned and looked around, wondering where, in this lovely feral setting, the smell of gas could be coming from.

            There was a snap and ching behind him and he turned, blinking in surprise to see Francis setting up a small tent. Dr. Walker had driven stakes into the ground and was hooking small metal rings over them, which were attached to the ropes holding the tent down. Then Francis unzipped it and held the flap aside.

            "You've been up all night," he whispered to Michael. Michael could hardly hear him over the bird song; Francis stood, holding the tent flap, deferential and a little apologetic. "Get some sleep. We'll wait for you."

            Michael stared at him. How could he possibly sleep when everything that had happened was still spinning wildly in his head? Professor White, Legs, the art show, the meal at Café Deo Volente, The Lido, the plane – he opened his mouth to protest but a yawn so huge it nearly split his head in half interrupted him. He paused and thought about his feet. They were very tired, and his knees ached. Maybe a little rest wouldn't be such a bad thing. His eyes felt very sandy and hot and he rubbed them.

            "Okay," he said. It would be very nice just to lie down – he didn't need to sleep, really; but a little rest would be Very Nice. He went up to the tent, crouched under the flap, and climbed inside. It smelled of woodsmoke and mildew and had a few old crunchy leaves in it, but Michael didn't care. He took the proffered backpack as a pillow and curled up in his jacket, only mildly surprised to feel Dr. Walker cover his legs with his own jacket. His eyelids felt very rough and heavy – maybe it would be good to close his eyes for a while. "Thank you," he murmured, and heard the tent zipper shrill shut just as he drifted off.

 

***********************************

 

            He floated lazily up through a thick sweet haze to the tantalizing sound of men's voices. They were familiar and comforting, and it was very pleasant to just lie in his warmth and drowsy contentment and listen without paying any mind to what they were saying. But then one said something that seemed to drop an ice cube into his heart, and his eyes opened.

            "So you agree we need to kill him?"

            It was Dr. Walker who had spoken. His voice was dry and dispassionate, as though he were discussing a patient or a clinical trial.

            Michael lay still, his heart hammering. Were they talking about HIM? Surely they wouldn't have brought him so far away just to kill him! His reason tamped that thought down and he strained to hear what Francis would say.

            "Objectively, yes, I see your reasoning," Francis' voice said, hesitant and unenthusiastic. "But I'm reluctant to do so without further proof."

            "Hell, Faramir; what more do you want? You've seen the program, you've read the paper, you know what it can do. You heard Legolas – my god, you ought to know by now you need to pay attention to what he says. When the hell has he ever lied to us? Or for that matter, ever been mistaken?"

            "He has no real stake in this. Even tied to Éowyn, he can do whatever he wants. He's never been afraid of anything." Francis' voice was bitter, and there was a sharp rustly noise; Michael could almost see him digging at the dirt with the end of a stick, could almost see the clenched jaw and furrowed brows. "Those two – "

            There was the sound of a breath being taken in sharply, and another rustling; it sounded as though Dr. Walker had risen to his feet, because when he replied his voice was from higher up.

            "Those two hear clearly," said Dr. Walker firmly. "They know the voices of their masters and they do what they're told to do. They know they can give things up at the drop of a hat because what really matters is what the Valar tell us, not this – " There was a swooshing noise; Michael wondered if Dr. Walker had waved his arms around. "This will all be here when Ahn Yong is gone. So will we. But could you look Michael in the eye and tell him you knew a man was about to murder twenty million people, and you didn't lift a hand to stop him? Could you?"

            When Francis replied, he sounded defensive. "We don't KNOW Dr. Ahn – "

            "Don't give me that bullshit, Faramir," snapped Dr. Walker; he sounded angry. "You've spent your whole life questioning Legolas even when he was proved again and again to be right. What, do you think he's making this shit up? Do you think he WANTS to be crawling through the ductwork down there trying to slap in USBs when he could be sitting next to Éowyn by the fireplace in White Rock? Do you think he WANTS to knife a hotel concierge and an FBI agent just to cover his tracks? Hell, do you think he WANTS to even get involved in this – god knows it'll never affect him; it can't – he and Arwen at least are safe. But us – and listen, Faramir, think of Doris and Michael, and their families – "

            "Okay, okay," sighed Francis; his voice was muffled, as though he had hidden his face in his hands. "I – I know Legolas is usually – all right, always right. God, I hate that!" His voice sounded suddenly venomous, and Michael remembered then how much Francis disliked Legs. He had almost forgotten, watching how well Francis worked with him. "Loud, foul-mouthed, arrogant, impertinent incubus – and then to start fucking Éowyn – "

            "Well, if you hadn't been running around – "

            "I know, I know." The angry edge had worn off; now Faramir sounded tired. "All right. I concede. Even from a purely conjectural standpoint I can see that he has to go. If not for those theoretical twenty million people, at least for Michael. I couldn't – " Francis paused; there was a deep silence, in which Michael realized it had grown rather dim; how long had he slept, anyway? Then he heard a crunching noise; it sounded as though Dr. Walker had sat down again, and when he spoke the point of origin was right next to Francis' voice.

            "Expiation even for one person is worth it," he said.

            His voice sounded very tender and soft. Michael held his breath, waiting for him to say something else, but there was nothing but silence outside the tent. Then he realized with a shock that he was Eavesdropping – one of those cardinal sins his mother had always told him he Should Not Do – and he felt very guilty. Granted, this was the only way of finding anything out; for the past week – hell, the past six months – Michael had been living in a box, ignorant of anything of import having to do with either his lover or his lover's acquaintances. This was obviously Important with a Capital I – twenty million people! – even the seven who'd died at the Lido seemed to pale in comparison. No, Michael shouldn't feel guilty for eavesdropping; he needed to hear this – but – he should probably not eavesdrop any more. It wasn't Nice.

            Giving a loud and elaborate yawn he stretched noisily, being sure to rub his nylon-clad arms against the inside of the tent to give off the irritating susurration that set his teeth on edge; he knew the men outside had heard him because they both made noises as though they were rising to their feet; then a hand grasped the zipper and pulled it up. A shock of cold fresh air rushed into the warm stifling tent and Michael sat up, nearly hitting his head on the top pole. Francis was crouching, his head thrust into the tent; he was smiling, though his expression was strained.

            "Goodness, darling, you slept forever," he said; he sounded as though he were forcing his voice to be more cheerful than he actually felt. "If you get up now, you'll be able to see the sun set. It's spectacular."

            Michael crawled out of the tent, and accepted Francis' hand to rise to his feet. His back was a little stiff and his shoulders felt like they wouldn't have objected to a trip to the chiropractor's; he rubbed at his chin and was horrified to discover Stubble. "I must look like a mess," he thought, his heart sinking; so much of Francis' affection for him was related to his looks and he was sure Francis disapproved. But to his surprise his lover didn't even seem to notice; he took Michael by the hand and led him back to the top of the ridge they'd climbed.

            Through the mellow light they saw the sun sinking in the aquamarine sky, burrowed like a nesting egg in a frothy bank of vermillion cloud; deep gray-purple edged the underside of its bower and brushed the sharp surface of the earth below; the brown flat lands dotted with ridge and crevasse, speckled all over with bush and shrub and rock. Then the egg sank into its roiling nest, casting a last scarlet ray at them, and disappeared. Michael looked up at Francis, who was smiling, but looked a little sad, too. Francis looked down at him.

            "It doesn't really matter what we do. The sun rises and sets despite us."

            Michael thought back on the conversation he'd just heard. If Francis had the ability to save the lives of twenty million people, it would indeed matter greatly what he did, whether the sun rose and set or not. He didn't want Francis to know he'd overheard him and Dr. Walker, but it was obvious Francis was wrong, and Michael knew it.

            "It matters to the people living under the sun," he said.

            Francis blinked, taken aback; behind them Dr. Walker chuckled. "You'd think he didn’t have a brain in his head," he said, his voice warm. "Then he comes out with statements like that. This one's a keeper, Faramir."

            Francis turned to Dr. Walker, blushing deeply. "Of course he's a keeper," he said stiffly, letting go Michael's hand and walking back up to the tent, dismantling it with a controlled anger. "I can be obedient too."  
            "Under duress," agreed Dr. Walker, smiling.

            Francis looked over at Michael, who swallowed nervously. Francis' eyes were contemplative and introspective, and he seemed to be weighing Michael's merit somehow. After a moment Francis said softly, "There's really no duress involved this time."

            "No?" Dr. Walker's eyebrows disappeared into his hair, and he looked at Michael, eyes twinkling. Michael found his hands were shaking. "Glad to hear it."

            He knelt beside Francis and helped him strike the tent, breaking down the poles and rolling the canvas around them. When it had been reduced to a foot-long bundle and affixed to the underside of his backpack he rose and looked from one of them to the other. Michael was struck again by his poise and authority. This was a man who was used to being obeyed – and yet, hadn't he implied that even he would do whatever Legs told him to?

            "Time to go," he said, rubbing his hands together. "We need to be quiet from here on out."

            Michael nodded timidly, and let Francis take his hand. Feeling as though he'd missed something significant, but comforted by the familiar touch of his lover's hand, he followed the two men down the ridge into the thick underbrush.


	10. The Metal Building

**The Metal Building**

 

            It was dark by the time Michael, Dr. Walker, and Francis made it to the bottom of the ridge, and it had grown a little warmer as they'd descended. The snow was gone and Michael could hear soft trilling noises coming from the low sage scrub and cliffrose – "Birds, I guess," he thought, and had a sudden irrational conviction that Francis knew exactly what kind of bird it was. After all, he'd proved himself to be so unexpectedly Woodsy, and Woodsy People knew things like that – birdcalls and flower names and poison ivy and what kinds of mushrooms would kill you if you ate them. He leaned close to his lover, bringing his lips up to his ear and breathed: "What kind of bird was that?"

            Francis looked at him and smiled; then he leaned over and whispered back: "Tree frog."

            Michael felt very foolish; couldn't he even tell the difference between a bird and an amphibian? Francis winked at him, his eyes twinkling, and then from ahead of them Dr. Walker turned and gestured them down.

            Francis and Michael sank to the cool prickly earth. Michael could feel dirt and stones and tickling plants beneath his palms. He followed Francis, crawling through fernbush scrub, though he wanted to instinctively shrink from the sharp rocks and branches that stabbed at his hands and knees, the cold dampness that soaked the knees of his jeans, and the mud that clung to his palms. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but even so he felt as big and clumsy as a hippopotamus behind Francis and Dr. Walker. Right over his head some sort of animal gave a harsh grating croak; Michael jumped and clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle his squeak of surprise. Francis looked over his shoulder at him questioningly.

            "Tree frog?" Michael whispered.

            Francis' normally severe face split into a jolly grin. "Crow," he whispered. "That's a bird, darling."

            He obviously found Michael's ignorance to be very amusing, and Michael felt a surge of annoyance. It wasn't HIS fault he didn't know anything about wildlife! Who'd teach him, anyway? It wasn't as though Francis EVER took him anywhere except for art shows and concerts and –

            "Shh!" Dr. Walker's hiss of warning floated back through the scrub to them and they froze, straining to listen. Then, off in the distance, Michael thought he could hear something – a thrumming – a thumping – then his thoughts seemed to coalesce and he realized he was hearing machinery.

            Dr. Walker gestured them forward, and when they crawled to the edge of the brake Michael saw they were looking down into a deep dell at a long, low metal building tucked back against the edge of the hill, looking almost as though it was burrowing into the hill and beneath the earth as well. There was another fence surrounding it, with biohazard and radioactivity signs warning people off, and as they were facing the rear of the building Michael saw the noise was being made by a group of large generators. The smell of gasoline, to which he'd grown accustomed the past few hours, came back to him, and it seemed suddenly abhorrent that someone had put machinery and gas in this pretty bucolic place. Michael had his pet charities already, but in his indignation promised himself he'd send a check off to the Sierra Club at the first opportune moment. This sort of thing really ought to be Stopped.

            Dr. Walker tugged on Francis' sleeve and pointed down. There was a helicopter pad below them, but it was empty; the two men seemed to find this a good sign. They both shed their back packs and settled down into the dry grass, waiting.

            Michael lay down too, and watched the two men watch the building. There was no one around, which Michael found a touch disconcerting; with all those warning signs and razor-wire fences, shouldn't there at least be guards? And where was the helicopter? Then he remembered Mrs. Walker and the airplane, and the sounds he'd heard in the desert, and realized the people in this building must still be looking for her. He hoped they didn't find her, whoever they were; they couldn't possibly be Good People, if they were hiding out so secretly in the woods like this! Besides, Francis and Dr. Walker were obviously intending to do something Bad to the people in the metal building, and with the mental equivalent of choosing his side of the fence, Michael decided that whatever Francis and Dr. Walker did was Right and whoever opposed them was Wrong and That Was That. He felt a guilty thrill when he remembered Francis' objection to Legs that what he was being asked to do was Treason.

            "I wonder if this is a government facility?" he thought, and looked around for signs that might point in that direction.

            They lay in the grass looking down into the dell for almost an hour. The stars had faded with the rising of the moon, bloated at its three-quarter mark and casting blue-black shadows all around them. Then Dr. Walker raised his head, looking up at the sky, and Francis looked up too; after a minute Michael could hear it – a low even thup-thup-thup – a helicopter.

            Dr. Walker jerked his head, and they carefully crawled backwards beneath the haven of the fernbrush. The thudding, pounding noise got louder, filling the night sky with a horrible cacophony against the peaceful darkness, and a white light stabbed round them, searching for them from above. Michael buried his face in his arms, feeling horribly exposed and vulnerable, and wished he were invisible.

            Then the light moved, and the noise seemed to sink and sit still. After about five minutes it slowed and stopped, and he could hear men's voices below them, sounding faint and small.

            Dr. Walker crept forward again, and Francis and Michael followed; lying low against the edge of the dell they looked down at the building. A large gray-green helicopter was squatting there, its bulbous nose looking as though it sported grasshopper's eyes; its rotors still spun slowly, even though the engines had been cut. Three men in uniforms – "So this IS a government facility," thought Michael, fighting down his panic; those were U.S. Army cammos – climbed out of the plane, one of them removing a headset; they all three had guns strapped to their hips. Two men in jumpsuits ran out of a side door to the metal building, followed by another man in a uniform. The three helicopter men saluted, and Michael could hear their voices but couldn't understand what they were saying. The two men in jumpsuits were climbing around the helicopter, dragging hoses and moving things about.

            Dr. Walker leaned over to Francis and murmured, "Thank god – I was wondering what we'd do if they didn't refuel it."

            "Plan B," whispered Francis, smiling faintly. Dr. Walker shook his head.

            "Take too long to walk," he whispered. He rested his chin on his arms. Michael leaned over to him, starting to feel a little nervous again.

            "Are you going to steal it?" he breathed into Dr. Walker's ear.

            Dr. Walker grinned. "No – just appropriate it for a while," he whispered, winking at Francis, who rolled his eyes.

            Remembering the airplane's rough landing in the desert, Michael swallowed. "Can you fly it?" he whispered nervously.

            "That old Huey? Sure," murmured Dr. Walker confidently. Feeling only marginally comforted Michael settled back into the grass, watching the men in uniform talk for a moment, then file back into the building, leaving the two technicians with the helicopter.

            They waited for at least another hour for the men to finish refueling and servicing the helicopter. Michael started to feel very cold and stiff, and felt annoyed at the men for taking so long. When at last they left the helicopter on the pad and returned to the building, taking their tool boxes with them, Dr. Walker breathed a sigh of relief.

            "Finally," he breathed. "Honestly, kids these days." He turned to Michael, who lay nervously biting his fingers and staring at the metal building. "Stay here," he whispered. "Don't let anyone see you." He and Francis started to crawl toward the edge of the dell, and Michael panicked, realizing they were leaving him alone in the darkness.

            "Don't leave me!" he hissed, grabbing at Francis' ankle. Francis turned, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and smiled at him.

            "We'll be back in an hour," he promised, caressing Michael's chin with his long fingers. "Just going to get Legs, hop in the chopper and head out. Nothing to worry about."

            Fighting back tears, Michael nodded. It was very hard to be Brave, especially after everything that had happened to him that week, but then he remembered Doris and her rock-solid assurance, and he took heart. If she could do it, so could he.

            Lying back down on the grass, he watched Francis and Dr. Walker creep down the slope in the shadows, nearly obscured by the tall scrubby underbrush and rocks; then they like dark ghosts drifted past the corner of the building and disappeared.

            Courage, Michael discovered then, only came in waves. It was one thing to think to himself, "Everything will be fine. I have to be brave," but after that first warming thrill of conviction, the darkness and the silence and worry oppressed him, and he had to remind himself to be brave over and over again.

            It became exhausting, this monitoring of his nerves. He didn't dare let his mind wander, wanting to be alert to any signs of danger or to the appearance of his friends, but at the same time simply lying there staring at the quiet, dark metal building in the middle of northern Arizona sapped his reserves of courage and he found himself shivering with apprehension, trying not to think of all the terrible things that Might Happen, that could be happening AT THAT MOMENT while he, Michael Morris, sat still and safe and hidden in the grass – they could be Captured or Arrested or Anything; his imagination came up with half a hundred horrible possibilities, and each time another surfaced he gritted his teeth, took firm mental stock of himself, and thought, "No. I won't sit here and worry. I'm going to be Brave." And then the cycle would begin again, and Michael would go from apprehension to courage in a split second.

            After a long time – he thought perhaps it may have been an hour, but since his watch was still sitting on his bureau at home he had no idea, and no way of finding out – he saw the side door of the metal building open again, and he raised his head hopefully. Was it Time? But he didn't recognize the outlined form in the light; it was a short stocky man, not the tall, slender men he was hoping for.

            His interest faded in vague disappointment, which grew instead into nervous apprehension when more men exited, all holding long low guns – "Rifles or machine guns," he thought, starting to lose his nerve; had Francis and Dr. Walker been captured? Nearly ten men had exited and were milling around, some with flashlights scanning over the ground; then one of them said something in a sharp voice, and they dispersed, some going around the corner of the building, some into the back lot where the generators were, and two –

             – coming up the slope towards him.

            A great big knot clenched around Michael's throat, and he could hear a high-pitched whining in his head, signaling to him that he'd stopped breathing. Terror filled him as the two men approached, their booted feet crunching over the rocks and brush, both with their guns tucked beneath their arms, flashlights casting bright pinpoint rays around, dancing and bobbing over the uneven ground. They were twenty yards off – ten – they were getting too close – fighting down his panic he tried to slowly slide back into the fernbrush, but his sneaker lace snagged on a branch and it snapped loudly. The two men paused, casting up around him with their flashlights; then a beam of white passed over his hand, illuminating it, and with a shout the two men ran up the slope.

            All thoughts of stealth vanished, and Michael jumped up and tried to run. He crashed through the underbrush, his down jacket snagging and catching on the branches in his flight; the other two men were faster and more familiar with the ground and caught him up easily. Michael heard them get closer and closer; his breath was coming out of his throat in sobs; he had to get away he had to get away he had to he had to he had to –

            A hand grabbed him, a voice said sharply, "Halt!" It seemed a rather melodramatic thing to say but it was surprisingly effective. Michael was thrown on his face, and a cold hard thing jabbed him in the back of his neck – the muzzle of a gun. He let out a terrified whine, pressing his face into the dirt, raising his hands so the men could see them. He heard someone walk around him, then a hand turned him over roughly. Michael stared up into a clean-cut young man's face; the dark eyes looked angry and suspicious.

            "Who the hell are you?" he barked.

            A name, a name, I need a name – "Phil Boyles," Michael whimpered, thinking of his old high school nemesis and hoping this came back to haunt him somehow.

The other man, still aiming the gun at him, snapped, "What are you doing here?"

            "I don’t know," Michael admitted, trying not to hyperventilate in his panic. "I don’t know where I am – I'm lost – "

            "Get up," said the first man, kicking him with his boot.

            Biting back a yelp of pain Michael struggled to his feet. He could see leaves and pine needles sticking out of his jacket and wished he could brush it off, but had a sudden conviction any moves toward his pockets would upset his captors, so he let the detritus dangle and stood, hands upraised, gasping out sobs and looking at the two men with watery eyes.

            Other men were charging up the slope. They made a lot of noise compared to Francis and Dr. Walker. Michael wondered where his friends were and hoped they hadn't been captured too. Flashlights swung and wobbled over him, making him squint sharply when they hit his eyes; at last he was surrounded by ten men in Army cammos, all aiming their shiny dangerous-looking guns at him and glaring at him suspiciously. One of them stepped forward.

            "Good job, you two," he said. He studied Michael coldly. He was a bit older than the others and Michael thought he looked like a nasty piece of work – cruel, the sort of man who enjoyed hurting others. Michael swallowed heavily. He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks and knew that instead of inciting these men to pity, they would only worsen his fate – his captors had the look of those for whom weakness is despicable and worthy of brutality. He knew those expressions – he recognized them. They were the same faces of the boys who had tormented him in high school – bullies, eager to prove themselves, relishing their control over someone weaker or different than they.

            "All right then, Mr. Boyles," said the older man, his mouth curving in a humorless smile. "Why don't you step inside for a chat? The Major's been looking forward to meeting you."

            The sharp point of a gun barrel shoved Michael forward, and he stumbled; the men around him laughed. Heart in his throat, his limbs like water, he tremblingly followed in the midst of the uniformed men around the corner of the building to the door.

            "I'm dead," he thought to himself, and then suddenly he remembered Legs was supposed to be inside too, and felt a little better. "He promised he'd take care of me, and he's saved my life once already," he thought, trying to slow the hammering of his heart as they walked through the door and down a long bright corridor. "Maybe he'll save me again."

            Comforted a little by that thought, Michael gathered the tatters of his courage about himself once more and followed his captors further into the building.


	11. The Metal Building

**The Nightmare**

 

 

            Major Fitzpatrick had close-cropped graying hair, and myriad lines and wrinkles around his face. He was square-jawed, broad-shouldered, and possessed seemingly inhuman posture for a man his age; he didn't look as though he'd slouched a day in his life. His eyes had the tired, clenched look of a man who'd sold himself in two places at once, and Michael was convinced he didn't even know how to smile. His expression when he'd looked up from the paperwork on his desk as Michael came in didn't exactly inspire one to confidence; Michael distrusted him the moment he laid eyes on him – there was something furtive, underhanded in that lined and craggy face, something that raised the hackles on the back of Michael's neck.

            As his interrogation proceeded, he was swiftly coming to the conclusion his first impression had been on the mark, and that thought made him even more frightened than he had been before. The sheer bulk and muscle of the soldiers surrounding him was intimidating, but there was a careless cruelty behind the Major's eyes that alarmed Michael.

            It didn't help that Major Fitzpatrick had known Michael for a homosexual before he'd even opened his mouth. One icy glance flicking up and down Michael's body, a keen look into his teary, terrified eyes, and the Major had him figured out. Despite the fact the sergeant had introduced Michael as "Phil Boyles," all the Major had called him so far was "faggot." Never angrily; never loudly; he used the word as though he had every right, as though Michael had given him his permission, as though it were Michael's name. And every time he called Michael that the other men grinned, and some sniggered and muttered to each other.

            Michael had brazenly lied to the Major from the outset, choosing to use a tale told him by a gay friend from high school about fetishizing truck drivers; he had even told Major Fitzpatrick his contact had sent him off on a wild-goose-chase and he'd gotten lost looking for his john. It sounded more reasonable, at least, than the truth, and as he'd gotten no hint so far that Legs, Francis, or Dr. Walker had been captured he figured he might as well keep their secrets and muddy the waters as thoroughly as possible. After all, a lot of gay men DID fetishize the truckers in the remoter San Diego truck stops; Michael had spoken to them before, shaking his head over the terrible risks – physical and medical – they took just for a quick fantasy-fulfillment.

            He hoped his story sounded convincing enough for Major Fitzpatrick's ears – he shuddered to think what this cruelly casual man would do if he knew the truth, and hoped against hope that somehow Legs and Francis and Dr. Walker would rescue him – "But if not that," Michael thought, steeling himself, "I hope I'm strong enough to keep my mouth shut so they can at least get out."

            He looked down into the Major's cold eyes and shuddered, thinking of all the horrible things men could do to hurt other men.

            "Please let me be strong," he prayed, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Please don't let me betray Francis – no matter what they do to me!"

            But whatever deity he'd supplicated was silent, and Michael stood, alone and feeling very vulnerable, in front of Major Fitzpatrick's big oak desk in the dark, cluttered room. The walls were made of the same stuff Michael remembered from Francis' office – temporary walls the color of faded denim, nubbly and rough – and tacked up on them were maps of Arizona, maps of the United States, and – Michael's heart turned cold – a map of North and South Korea. There was a big American flag on a brass stand behind the Major's desk chair and the desk was cluttered with paperwork, a slim black laptop, and several telephones, though the indicator lights on the electronic equipment were dark, and one of the phones was off its hook, not even beeping, eerily silent.

            The men who'd captured Michael stood in a semi-circle behind him, hemming him in. He could feel their presence all around him, like needles sticking into his skin, and as he was still wearing his parka he was sweating heavily. He could feel a steady stream of perspiration trickling down his back, oozing past the waistband of his underwear, and running in tickling drips down the crack of his backside. There were no windows, because they were underground; the men had taken him round the other side of the building and in through a front entryway, then down an elevator to a dark hallway; at the end of the hallway had been what Michael had privately called The End of the Road – Major Fitzpatrick's office. It was stifling, and smelled of chemicals and machinery, and Michael felt faint.

            Now Major Fitzpatrick was silent, ruminating over Michael's spurious story. He seemed to believe it, at least on the surface, but that handsome, rugged face was shuttered, suspicious, and Michael was all too aware of the men and their guns behind him.

            Michael swallowed heavily and pressed his arms closer to his side, trying to keep them from trembling. He knew that to show any weakness at this point would only stimulate these men to cruelty. How many times had he experienced just that in the past? The high school football team, the weightlifters in the university locker room, a group of construction workers on the corner by the mall where he worked – bullies grouped, drawn to debility and frailty like magnets, and the weaker and frailer their target, the tougher and crueler they became. Michael had learned long ago that to cry was to invite further injustice, but sometimes it was so hard not to cry.

            Major Fitzpatrick folded his square, calloused hands on the desk in front of him and looked urbanely up at Michael, pursing his lips. "All right then, faggot," he said tranquilly, ignoring the snickerings of his men around him. "You've told us what you're supposedly doing here. Your story aside, answer me this." He leaned forward, and his dark eyes became even more intense than before; his gravelly voice deepened. "What the hell did you do to our computers?"

            Michael blinked at this sudden accusation. "I – what?" he said, terribly confused. Major Fitzpatrick regarded him evenly.

            "You heard me," he said coldly. "Our computers. How did you shut them down? How do we get them back up? Were you using a wireless network to hack into it? What?"

            Michael stared blankly at him. "I – don’t know anything about computers," he stammered. "I'm an interior decorator."

            Another snigger from behind him, and whispers. The Major glared at him.

            "So you say, faggot," he said. "But let me tell you this. Sodomy's illegal in Arizona. Did you know that, faggot?"

            Michael swallowed again, and his heart, which had slowed to a canter, galloped along again at a breakneck pace, and his eyes started to tunnel.

            "So if you admit to me – a law-abiding, upright American citizen – that you're out here specifically to perpetrate sodomy upon a heterosexual truck driver, it's really up to me to stop you. My patriotic duty, really. Now," he said, looking over Michael's pale face and terrified eyes unsympathetically, "I could turn you over to the police – I really ought to, you know, faggot – but that wouldn't do me much good, would it? Because you're not here to butt-fuck truck drivers, really, are you?"

            "I told you – " began Michael in a high squeaky voice, but Major Fitzpatrick interrupted him, his voice rising.

            "Because the nearest highway with a truck stop on it is over ninety miles away, and I have a very hard time believing you walked ninety miles from the New Mexico border looking for a truck driver."

            Major Fitzpatrick glanced behind Michael, and without warning a rough hand shoved Michael forward until his face was pressed on the Major's desk; someone kicked his legs apart and to his horror Michael felt the cold hard muzzle of a gun shoved into his crack.

            "Now tell me," said Major Fitzpatrick serenely; Michael could no longer see him, his cheek was pushed onto the paperwork, a hand gripping him by the back of his neck, another two hands held his arms out straight, "now tell me, faggot, what are you really doing here, and what did you do – " Major Fitzpatrick's voice got louder and higher, he'd stood up " – to our computers?"

            When Michael's only response was a terrified squeak, Major Fitzpatrick grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head and jerked back until Michael was looking up at him, his chest still pressed to the desk, the muzzle of a rifle shoved so hard against him he instinctively tried to squirm away, compressing his testicles against the edge of the desk and letting out a sob of fear. He looked up at the Major, panicky but resolutely dumb – he would NOT speak. He would NOT betray Francis and Dr. Walker and Legs. The Major stared down at him, dark eyes impassive, indifferent; he seemed to read the defiance in Michael's eyes, so he let go and sat back down.

            "Well, then, faggot," sighed the Major, picking up a file and glancing through it, "I suppose, if you've got nothing more to tell me, I might as well let Sergeant Kistler give it a shot. He's a lot more persuasive than I am." The muzzle between his cheeks twitched and twisted, pressing in harder, and Michael let out a panicky moan, squeezing his eyes shut. "Unless, of course, you've changed your mind, and you want to tell me who exactly it is blowing up airplanes, climbing around in our ductwork, fucking up our computers, and killing my men."

            "Legs," thought Michael with a sudden thrill of hope. "They haven't caught him yet." Taking a dram of courage from this Michael said, his voice trembling but steadfast: "I don't know – I told you – I don't know anything about it." Remembering Doris' explanation of her former life, he blurted, "I told you I was just an interior designer. I don’t know anything!"

            "Hmm," said Major Fitzpatrick indifferently, flicking through the files on his desk. "Take him someplace else, Kistler, and squeeze it out of him. Have fun."

            There was a loud chortle behind Michael, a horrible gurgling sound, and the rough hands on him jerked him back to his feet, nearly impaling him on the tip of the rifle. He was spun around to face the other men, who all leered and grinned at him, their eyes dark with malice and a horrible lust for brutality. Terrified, Michael tried to back up against the desk, his hands palm-out to them, but two of them grabbed him and yanked him into their circle. He stumbled and nearly fell, but there were hands on him, grabbing and pinching and bruising hands, pushing and shoving him back to the office door. He caught the corner of his cheekbone on the flimsy door jamb and flinched back, clapping his hand to his face, but the men only laughed louder and thrust him out into the hallway.

            The fluorescent lights cast their harsh cold light on him, quivering irritatingly in the corner of his eyes. The linoleum floor and plain cinderblock walls echoed with the voices of the patrol as they guffawed and snickered and whispered, pushing him along the hallway, around a corner, and down another long hallway to a lone closed door at the end.

            Then Michael remembered the nightmare he'd had – had it only been last weekend? – and he knew with chilling certainty what these men were going to do to him. He started to sob incoherently, and tried to turn and break through the group encircling him, but the men only laughed harder and pushed more roughly. When Michael begged, "Please don't – please let me go – " one particularly nasty-looking brute struck him on his cheekbone with his fist, and through the sparks and black suction in his eyes, Michael felt himself fall.

            He landed on the point of his eyebrow, triggering yet more sparks, and his eyes overflowed with tears of pain and fear. Behind it all was the terrible compunction to run, to escape, to get away, to save himself. But someone kicked him in the side and with a sickening whoosh all his breath left him; he curled in on himself, clutching his ribs and gasping.

            "Get up, faggot!" one of the men jeered, and then they all started.

            "Come on, faggot! On your feet! Come on, you wanted to get butt-fucked, didn't you? Look awful pretty down there, faggot, makin' me hard already."

            Someone's booted foot dug itself under his stomach and flipped him onto his back. He looked up, terrified and filled with a sick horror at the men's grinning faces circling him; all he could manage to think coherently was, "Oh, please, not this, no – " and then the men grabbed him and lifted him to his feet, pushing him down the hallway to the door. He tried to dig his feet in, leaning back and straining, but all around him were rough hands, grasping and shoving and striking him, until his head spun and he hardly knew which direction he was pointing in. Then someone grasped him by the back of his collar and forcibly threw him forward. His head struck a plastic and metal chair, engendering more flashes and black blots before his eyes, and although he tried to stop himself he let out a frightened whimper.

            He rolled up onto his hands and knees, trying to blink the fog of tears and pain away and desperately attempting to refocus his mind, which had gone hazy. The lights in the room were bright and harsh, more fluorescence, and he caught a quick glimpse of cabinets and a couple of small desks and more plastic chairs. Then someone was on him, a heavy masculine body smelling of metal and sweat. Michael felt a hand groping for the front of his jeans, and with a scream he tried to struggle out from underneath.

            There was more laughter, more raucous jeering. A foot caught him in the ribs again and he collapsed on his stomach with a gasp, trying to catch his breath; his chest and esophagus burned and ached for want of oxygen and there were sparkles flashing in front of his eyes. Hands grasped and held him down; four men, one on each limb, and that heavy horrible body pressed down onto him, big meaty hand on the back of his head, pushing his face into the musty industrial-grade carpet.

            Michael was screaming freely, the words flowing out of him without conscious forethought – "No! Please! No, stop!" But they had no effect – he knew they wouldn't but he couldn't help himself. Again he felt the rough hand tugging at his jeans, which had come undone, and now he could feel the hard outline of something long and cold, like a metal broom handle, pressing up against his buttocks.

            "Get the Vaseline!" shouted someone from across the room, accompanied by more laughter.

            "Fuck the Vaseline!" the man on top of Michael hollered hoarsely. "Doesn't deserve it, this faggot."

            "Picked a good day to get butt-fucked!" shouted someone else, and Michael began to scream in earnest, begging them to let him go; he could hardly even struggle, he was being held down so firmly. Then there was a man's coarse jaw rubbing against his ear, and a voice growled: "You get what you deserve, faggot," and to his horror Michael felt his jeans getting tugged down over his backside.

            He twisted, strong and quick in his desperation, nearly bucking the man off; someone kicked him again, and with a gasping yelp he writhed away, trying frantically to get out from under his foe. He could see large, heavy feet, camouflage material tucked into the glossy black boots, the butts of rifles resting on the floor; past the fuzzy carpet at his face he saw the back wall, plain white cinderblock, men's legs, heard men's voices. He drew in his breath in a sob of terror, felt a man's hand slide beneath his damp underpants, trying to pull them down.

            Then a shout and an explosion – two explosions – three, four, five. More shouts. A scream and a groan. Something lurched horribly above him; a thick hot liquid streamed down his cheek, and the heavy body became still and sagging. Booted feet running, more explosions – boom, boom, boom – someone shouted, "Get the fucker!" and answering fire from the rifles.

            Michael got his hands and knees beneath him, bucking the body off from his back, which rolled to the side with a sickening thud, its head lolling, red and shining. He saw bodies lying on the floor, darkening the carpet with their blood; one face – white, empty of thought – stared blankly at him, a bullet hole in its forehead surrounded by a dark splatter. There was shouting behind him, and terrible noise, so Michael turned to see what was going on.

            Legs danced there, blackened face grim, eyes flashing. His gun was empty but he spun and whirled like a ballet virtuoso, a star gymnast, a toy top. His hands were everywhere, dark gloved hands thrusting and twisting, breaking necks; long black-clad legs leaping, kicking, dancing. Only three men were left to stand up to him, trying to encircle him. Legs spun, his booted foot catching one of the men in the face; the rifle the man was holding faltered forward and Legs grasped it, but there was no time to aim and shoot; the other two were upon him. He used the butt of the rifle then, slamming it into the men's faces – a spurt of blood from a crushed nose, then the thick crack of metal on a skull; the last two were down; Legs flipped the rifle, took aim, three more explosions – boom, boom, boom – blood splatters, the rattling gurgles of the dying: the last three dead.

            Legs whirled, turned to Michael, his blue eyes alight with battle fury, and Michael cringed back, suddenly afraid Legs would not be able to differentiate him from the men he had so brutally and efficiently killed. Frodo's casual statement came back to him: "I'm no assassin. That's Legolas' job." Suddenly that didn't seem like such an incongruous testimonial. Gone was the sexy, amusing, unnerving incubus he'd met in his bedroom; gone was the droll, intelligent bully from The Lido: Legolas stood, tall, whipcord-lean, quivering with suppressed energy, dark glossy spatters of blood on his black clothing, his white-blond hair mussed and coming out of its ponytail.

            Michael yelped in sudden fear and cringed back. Something flickered in Legs' eyes – compassion, perhaps – he opened his mouth to speak, but then Michael saw, behind Legs, the door opening, and he gave a strangled cry and tried to point – but he was too late.

            Legs heard the door and turned, swinging his rifle up at the ready, but Major Fitzpatrick had already squeezed the trigger. The side of Legs' face exploded in a mass of bright red, taking his eyeball and half his cheekbone with it, and the rifle dropped to the floor as the long lean body fell. He landed heavily, on his back, his head rolled to the side, and Michael looked into the beautiful ruined face at the remaining eyeball, fixed and empty of life, and then began to scream again.

 


	12. The Patriot

**The Patriot**

 

 

            Major Fitzpatrick wasted no time on niceties. He crossed the room in three huge strides, the pistol aimed unerringly at Michael's head, his craggy handsome face marred by a furious scowl that drew deep grooves from his nostrils down the sides of his chin, and created valleys between his thick grizzled eyebrows.

            Michael pushed himself up onto his knees and raised his hands, biting back his screams. He was so full of the horror of the past hour that he felt physically ill. He could feel the thick glutinous blood drying on his face, could feel its clotting accrual sliding down beneath the collar of his shirt. He knew his jeans were still undone and halfway down his buttocks, but he was far too afraid of the Major to do anything about it.

            The older man stood before him, tall, intimidating, shaking with rage, but the big strong hand that held the pistol before Michael's face was steady.

            "Who the fuck is he?" shouted the Major, gesturing briefly with the muzzle. Michael was terribly aware of Death staring him in the face, and through his panic recognized that perhaps to die right here, right now, would be preferable to the alternative, especially where Major Fitzpatrick was concerned. Fighting down blind terror, and cringing away from the bright smoking muzzle, Michael choked out:

            "I d-don't kn-know – "

            "BULLSHIT!" Michael jumped when he shouted, heart in his throat. "Who the FUCK is he and what the FUCK are you two doing in a classified military zone!" Michael closed his eyes and pursed his lips over a whimper of fear. He felt the muzzle press against his forehead. It was very hot, and smelled of sulfur. "TALK!"

            Michael took a deep shuddering breath. To talk and be tormented by this horrible man and his minions, or to be silent and die?

            Death it was, then. He opened his eyes and looked up into Major Fitzpatrick's face, terrified but adamant. The Major read his refusal in his eyes, and clenched his jaw, fuming and impotent. His hand tightened on the grip and his forefinger twitched in preparation for squeezing the trigger.

            But there was then the sound of scrabbling feet on the linoleum outside the door. The Major turned, gun cocked and ready, holding it out against an intruder who would almost certainly be more of a threat than the weak and sniveling homosexual sobbing on his knees before him. A shadow passed in front of the door, which quickly coalesced into a human form – dark-clad, dark-haired, tall and slim and panting hard from a headlong run – Michael recognized him instantly, and though he felt the sudden warm surge of relief, he knew his lover's presence would only reinforce his decision.

            "Francis! Run, save yourself!" he shrieked, making a grab for Major Fitzpatrick's back. He felt his fingers scrabbling on the coarse cloth, slipping over the thick seams, but managed to get a firm hold, jerking the man back as the gun discharged harmlessly into the drop ceiling.

            With a shout that was half-irate, half-triumphant, the Major turned, faster than Michael thought a man his age could move, and grabbed Michael by the collar, dragging him to his feet and pressing the burning circle of the tip of the muzzle to the side of his head.

            "Stop!" bellowed Major Fitzpatrick. "Stop or I'll kill the little faggot right now!"

            Michael's head stopped spinning, and he saw Francis standing, a large ugly-looking pistol in hand, hesitating in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Michael's face. He looked both relieved and horrified. No, thought Michael, this would NOT happen. He would NOT sacrifice himself just so Francis would go all noble and have his face blown off like Legs. Francis WOULD escape! What would his life mean, even if he did manage to get out of this metal building in one piece, if Francis died because of him? It would be Unthinkable.

            "Run!" he yelled again. "Get out, quick! Run!"

            The muzzle pressed harder against his head. Major Fitzpatrick had clutched him closer. "I mean it!" he grated. "I'll kill the little fuck. Drop that Glock and get your pansy ass in here."

            There was a horrible silence, punctuated by the three men's breathing: Hoarse, uneven, shallow. Francis' face did not mirror whatever thoughts might have been milling behind it. He studied Michael carefully, his pale eyes showing only the barest hint of fear. After a long appalling moment, his body, tensed to run, relaxed a fraction of a hair, and Michael groaned in disappointment. But still Francis' angular black gun pointed straight at the Major, and he showed no other signs of capitulation.

            "Drop the fucking gun!" shouted Major Fitzpatrick again, and Francis smiled.

            "Do you really think that will help you?" he asked calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. "Do you think we came here alone?"

            "I already plugged your fancy-pants friend, you fucking faggot," snarled Major Fitzpatrick. Michael could feel the spit on his cheek as the Major spoke, and the large rough hand was around his throat.

            Michael tried to swallow, and watched as Francis leaned forward and to the left, looking round Major Fitzpatrick's body to see Legs, sprawled in his own blood on the floor.

            "Ah, so you have," he said evenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Michael suddenly remembered how much Francis had disliked Legs, and was appalled to realize Francis was glad he had died.  "Hm. You did a rather thorough job, too. I congratulate you, Major-General Fitzpatrick. He's quite hard to kill, you know."

            "Nothing a forty-five can't cure," growled the Major, and Francis inclined his head politely. "So give up the fucking Glock, faggot, and tell me what the FUCK you assholes did to our computers!"

            "Very well," said Francis, and to Michael's horror he took the handgun and lightly tossed it to the side, so that it landed with a hollow thunk on Legs' belly. "It was his anyway," he said, holding his hands palm-out to show the Major he was unarmed. "I thought I might as well give it back to him."

            "Shut up!" snapped Fitzpatrick. "Talk or I'll kill him." And he squeezed Michael's throat, making him gasp, pressing the muzzle of his gun against Michael's temple.

            Don't tell him, don't tell him, thought Michael desperately, wishing he could communicate telepathically with his lover. Don’t tell him – turn and run – save yourself, save Dr. Walker, get out of here – at that point Francis' eyes lost their polite blandness, and a spark of dark humor surfaced.

            "Well, that's rather to the point, isn't it, Major-General?" he said, his voice low and edged with warning. "If you kill Michael, I'll be compelled to attack you in turn, and in the ensuing mayhem I'm almost positive one of us will die. If I die, you won't learn a thing because he and I will both be dead. And if I kill you, which is the more likely ending to this suppositional scenario, trifling considerations such as the Yong Virus will be quite beyond your scope. So I suggest to you it is in your best interests to remove that gun from his temple, and I will tell you what you need to know, in order to preserve his safety, because quite honestly if something happens to him I'll have precious little to live for."

            Michael stared in amazement at him, and he could tell from the sudden stillness that Major Fitzpatrick was staring too. After a long, painful moment the muzzle shifted, and with only the slightest bit of hesitation the handgun now pointed straight at Francis.

            Michael's mind was a whirl. Francis was going to Betray Them. Francis loved him enough to die for him. Francis was glad Legs was dead. Francis was willing to give up everything for him. He was so torn between delight and horror he hardly caught what Major Fitzpatrick said next.

            "All right then, you fucking faggot," he said, his voice even and calm once more, which to Michael's mind was far worse than his previous angry outbursts. "How about this: You talk or I'll kill you, and then I won't kill your precious little butt-buddy – I'll do worse to him, much worse. Wouldn't like that much, would you?"

            Francis' eyes glittered dangerously, but he remained still. Michael could feel Major Fitzpatrick shift a little, holding on to his collar tighter, and wished he were fast enough to grab the Major's arm and push it down so Francis could escape. He didn't dare risk it, though. All it would take would be the slightest clue on his part that he was about to move and he knew the Major would shoot.

            "But if you talk I'll put you in a cell together – hell, I'll ship you off to D.C. for your sedition hearings together – and you can keep both eyes on him as long as you want. How's that for bargaining?"

            Francis appeared to consider this. "Fair enough," he conceded, and smiled. "So long as he's safe, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

            No, no, no, thought Michael, his heart sinking down into his feet. don't tell him don't tell him don't tell him – he felt Major Fitzpatrick's cheek move, and realized with a jolt of nausea he'd licked his lips.

            "All right then," said the Major. "Who are you and what the fuck are you doing?"

            "My name is Dr. Francis Steward, and I'm a contract programmer," said Francis casually, as though he were introducing himself at a dinner party. "I primarily work on security systems for government agencies – predominantly enforcing stronger security packages, making the proprietary information contained in the agencies inviolable. I'm rather good," he admitted immodestly, smiling. "I actually wrote the program you were using here in Chinp'yŏng – "

            Major Fitzpatrick started, and though Michael couldn't see his face he knew the man was surprised.

            "Yes – I even know the code name of this facility," said Francis. "I know when it was established, I know who authorized its formation, and I know its nefarious function. I know who Ahn Yong is, I know what the Sŏndŏk Virus can do, and I know for what purpose it was created. And I also know another program – a clever little program, that a friend of mine designed – that turns Cray Threes into glorified adding machines, and that, Major-General, is what happened to your computers. What I _don’t_ know, however, which is rather puzzling me, is why you have chosen to go by the rank of Major and not the more eminent rank you have already achieved – I can only guess that for some reason you have decided to lie to the men under your command about the purpose of this facility and project, as well as to your superior officers, including the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, your President."

            He smiled then, an unpleasant smile that made Michael shudder. He could feel Major Fitzpatrick begin to shake, and was sure he was shaking with anger. That frightened him, because an angry Major Fitzpatrick was very dangerous at this point, and with the words "I'll ship you off to D.C." Michael had begun to nurture the pitiable hope that they might actually escape alive. But from what Michael could tell, from what Francis had said, it sounded as though Francis and Grim had hacked through the security of the government facility's computers – and a spurious government facility, at that – and somehow Legs had installed the program to destroy all the files contained there.

            But if the information on the computers had been so important, thought Michael, surely they would have saved the information elsewhere, wouldn't they? One of Michael's co-workers had accidentally erased half the bookkeeping files once, and although Mavis, their manager, had been angry, all it had taken was calling in a computer expert, and the files had been restored. Major Fitzpatrick apparently was thinking along the same lines, because he said slowly: "Well, you might have killed our computers here, but don't think we didn't have back-up – "

            Francis laughed lightly. "Good heavens, Major-General, do you take me for a complete innocent?" he asked, smiling, his gray eyes twinkling. "Of course I know all about the disaster facility in Phoenix, and the back-up drop in Miami. Did you realize your ISP connected all those files by satellite so any changes would be automatically updated? Did you?"

            When the Major didn't respond, only quivered slightly, his breath accelerated, Francis shook his head. "Dear, dear. One of my collaborative efforts with my friend, the one who wrote the worm-virus, was to break through all firewalls connected to the infected program via the ISP and destroy that data, too. And don't worry about fragment shadows – we cleaned them out, as well."

            Michael felt like smiling. Really, that had been very clever – but then the Major's hand started shaking, and Michael realized with a jolt of renewed fear he was angry again. Francis watched him carefully, tracking the quivering muzzle, and after a monumental effort on the Major's part his hand steadied.

            "Well, faggot, you've managed to destroy about ten years' worth of work, haven't you?" he growled. The bitterness and rage trembled in his gravelly voice, and the hand started to tighten on the gun. Don't shoot him, thought Michael to himself, filled with panic. Please don't kill him, I'll die right here right now if you do – "You fucking bastard – it'll take me ages to rebuild all of this. And I will rebuild it," he added, and Michael could almost hear the burgeoning triumph in his voice. "All this data can be recreated, and with the proper support from the Senate members sympathetic to – "

            "I know about Senators Holman and Fischer too," said Francis calmly. "They're being dealt with on another level. And as Ahn Yong is the mastermind behind Sŏndŏk – " Francis smiled then, a very unpleasant smile, that reminded Michael of how evil Legs could look when he wanted to. "We know where Dr. Ahn is. We'll take care of him."

            "Like hell you will," grated the Major. His voice sounded tight, as though he were frightened. "He's gone, he's protected. And you can't – " Then he started, and Michael heard him swallow convulsively. "How many of you are there?"

            "Depends," said Francis airily. "Do you mean just the regular human ones, or the Undead? If you mean just humans, I'd say probably no more than five or six. Of the Undead, fifteen."

            Undead? Michael stared at Francis in confusion. His answer also seemed to puzzle Major Fitzpatrick – Major-General Fitzpatrick, then – but his confusion only heightened his anger, and the muzzle of the gun held to Francis' chest was quivering.

            "What the hell do you mean, undead?" he snapped. "Is this some paramilitary group, terrorist organization, subversive faction, what?"

            "You've no right to disparage paramilitary groups, terrorist organizations, and subversive factions, you know," chided Faramir, examining his fingernails. "Project Chin-ji falls into that category. Not exactly up to the U.S. Army's protocol standards, in my opinion."

            The Major-General seemed to draw himself up proudly. the arm holding the gun past Michael's face stiffened and strengthened. "North Korea is a definite threat to the Asian countries friendly to the U.S. – "

            "So by killing millions of already-starving citizens, you're striking a blow for capitalism? I fail to follow your logic."

            Fitzpatrick's breath hitched in his throat. His next statement belied his anger and unease, for his voice shook a little. "Shut the fuck up! And tell me who the fuck this Undead faction is!"

            "Goodness gracious!" said Faramir, blinking a little at his tone. "You don’t know what Undead are? Your education is sadly lacking, Major-General."

            Fitzpatrick ground his teeth. "If you don't – " he began in a low growl, but Francis waved his hand negligently.

            "Oh, very well," he said with a sigh, seeming to indicate the conversation bored him, and Major-General Fitzpatrick was the equivalent of a particularly ignorant schoolboy who had not learned his lessons properly. "All right. I'm not sure how much you understand about voodoo and animism and other religions that venerate the ancestors that have already Passed Over, so here we go. Undead people are ones you can't kill – you know, zombies, vampires, resurrected mummies – because they've already died, so that – "

            "What – shut the fuck up!" exclaimed Fitzpatrick, sounding bewildered and angry. "I didn't ask for a fucking science fiction lesson, I asked you a straightforward question and I want a straightforward answer, dammit! There's no such thing as zombies or vampires so you can cut the Undead shit RIGHT NOW and tell me who you really are!"

            Francis looked blankly at him. "There aren't any such things as zombies?" he said. He looked surprised, as though this were unexpected information that challenged a long-held belief. Michael heard Fitzpatrick make an exasperated noise and twitch his head impatiently.

            "NO, there's no such thing as fucking zombies!" shouted Fitzpatrick angrily. The hand around Michael's throat tightened, and he let out an involuntary squeak, eliciting an irate shake from the Major-General.

            "Oh!" said Francis, seeming taken aback. "Well, you'd better tell HIM that." He gestured with his chin to their left, and both Michael and Major-General Fitzpatrick looked over automatically.

            Legs stood there, half his head blown away, his remaining eye focused and angry. A large plate of skull hung down from the side of his head exposing the mangled jelly inside. But the hand that held the Glock was steady as he squeezed the trigger, and Fitzpatrick didn't even have time to cry out before he died in an explosion of light and noise and blood. He dropped heavily to the floor, his gun clenched tightly in his hand.

 


	13. The Voice

**The Voice**

 

 

            Michael staggered back, brain screaming out against the absurdity of what he had just witnessed. Impossible – it was impossible – it was another dream – he would wake up in a minute – wake up, wake up, wake up –

            Francis stepped forward, looked calmly down at Fitzpatrick's body. "Nice shot," he said, nonchalantly thrusting his hands in his pockets.

            "Nice segue," Legs replied, grinning lopsidedly. Most of his left cheek was missing. When he moved his mouth the great gaping hole flexed and split, showing the white bone beneath the flesh. Michael felt his gorge rise. He was suddenly dizzy and very hot, and could taste bile. He dropped to his knees and vomited on Major-General Fitzpatrick's shiny black boots, reflecting miserably as he retched that it served the nasty bastard right. He raised a shaking hand to his lips and heard Legs make a clucking noise above him.

            "Oh, Michael," Francis chided, his voice gentle, kneeling beside him and embracing him warmly. "It's a bit much for you, isn't it, darling?"

            Michael felt him tenderly stroking his hair, brushing back the sweaty curls from his forehead and smoothing them back on to his skull. Relieved despite his stomach's rejection of All Things Edible, Michael closed his eyes and leaned back against Francis' chest, eking what comfort he could from his lover's touch.

            "Not fuckin' used to it, poor bugger," came Legs' voice from above them. Michael didn't dare look up at him. He was sure he'd throw up again if he did. But then if he looked around the room, he saw lots of things that would make him throw up – he clenched his eyes shut and moaned, clutching his stomach, which hurt. "Can't bloody well blame him, can we? Fuckin' dead bodies all over."

            "Frankly, I think it's you making him sick," said Francis. He grasped Michael's jeans firmly in his hands, tugged them up over his buttocks, and fastened them. "There – that's better isn't it?" he asked, giving Michael's cheek a kiss and standing up again. "Good heavens, Legolas, doesn't that hurt?"

            "Fuckin' A, hurts like bloody screaming hell," said Legolas. Despite himself Michael looked up at him. He was reaching his long, black-clad fingers to tentatively touch his ruined face. "Fuck, what the fuck's up with this. Why haven't I got any fucking depth perception?"

            "Because your left eyeball's gone, silly," said Francis, rolling his eyes but smiling nonetheless. When Legs started to probe at the opened skull he said sharply, "Now, stop that this instant. Just wait a minute, and I'll get something to put you back together again … Humpty-Dumpty."

            He smiled then, a warm smile, which Legs answered. And Michael, through his nausea, felt better. Francis really DIDN'T hate Legs, Francis really WOULDN'T betray them. Then his breath hitched on a cold doubt: Did Francis really mean it when he'd told Major-General Fitzpatrick that his life would mean nothing without him? Had that been Just-Pretend, too? His stomach twisted again and he closed his eyes, preferring the ignorant dark.

            He heard Francis cross the room and start opening cabinet doors, rummaging around. He heard Legs moving away, walking to the door and pausing, then there was the sound of the door being shut and locked. "There," Legs said, his voice sounding satisfied. "If there are any of the manky little tossers running round, they won't suss us out here."

            "H – how are we going to get out?" asked Michael miserably from where he knelt in a pile of vomit and blood. He looked down at his hands and promptly wished he hadn't, and when he turned to look at Francis he felt a sharp twinge in his eye and winced.

            "Nice shiner you've got, mate," said Legs' voice from above him. Michael still didn't want to look at him. His stomach was feeling far too delicate. "Which one hit you, that greasy blart there?"

            "I don't know," whispered Michael, squeezing his eyes shut, though he could feel the lump forming over his eyelid, and it was throbbing slightly. "Some big guy."

            "Well, I topped 'im for yer. Topped 'em all, really, mate."

            Michael looked up at him. He didn't want to look – he was trying hard not to look – but somehow he couldn't help looking at Legs. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking round at all the bodies and scratching the part of his head that was still attached. The expression on the remaining half of his face was satisfied.

            "Normally I fuckin' hate toppin' patriots, but these manky twats bloody well deserved it."

            "I'm just glad you got here when you did," said Francis. His demeanor had lost its customary coolness and he seemed truly grateful – not something Michael associated with his Alpha. It seemed a little Unnatural to him. Francis approached them, his arms full of bandages and surgical tape. "All right, Humpty-Dumpty, let's see what all the king's men can do for you."

            His voice was light, gentle and teasing, and through his misery Michael felt a stab of jealousy. What had they been like with each other, when they were together? Had they been like this, lighthearted and taunting? He watched them, his stomach roiling, as Legs sat on one of the blood-splattered chairs, and Francis fussed and tutted over his skull.

            "You're missing half your brains, you know," he said archly, raising an eyebrow at Legs. "I'm surprised you're still functioning."

            "Ah, never use 'em anyway," grinned Legs, showing his cheekbone. "Not smart like you – Ilúvatar blessed me elsewhere. Look, there's some of it over there – just scoop it up and bung it in. It'll sort itself out eventually."

            "You'll have carpet fibers in your head."

            "I've got a fuckin' bullet in me loaf. A couple bits of carpet won't do me any harm."

            "Oh, god," moaned Michael, transfixed by the sight of his lover dropping gelatinous bloody chunks into the gaping wound of Legs' head – it was disgusting, but he couldn't look away. He retched once more but held it, determined to toughen himself. After all if he were to start hanging around with This Sort of Person, he'd better develop a less sensitive constitution.

            Francis held the loose parts of Legs' brains still and slowly raised the flap of the skull, like a drawbridge going up. Legs cursed fluidly, creatively, drawing out a string of almost incomprehensible invective at the sensation, but when at last the pieces were in place, matted with bloody hair and crooked tattered bits of skin, he gave a sigh of relief.

            "Ah, feel better already, I do," he said. "Fuck, I need a lollie after that. Either of you got a lollie or a pastille or summat?"

            "You must be joking," said Francis dryly.

            "There are granola bars outside in the backpacks," said Michael, remembering the feel of half-digested granola being regurgitated. Surprisingly enough his stomach behaved. "I must be completely empty," he thought. "Either that or I'm getting used to this." He wasn't sure which was worse.

            "Fuck, no muesli for me," said Legs. Francis had unwound white sterile strappings and was wrapping them around Legs' head, holding it together. "Neither of you got any sweets? No chocolates, nothing? Fuck," he sighed dejectedly. "Really need something in me gob, I do." He glanced around for a moment, his blue eye darting about the room, then brightened. "Mike," he said eagerly. "One of these feckers has some fags – I can fuckin' smell 'em from here. I think it's that josser in the corner. Suss it out, will yer?"

            "Good grief, Legolas – " said Francis, but Michael, feeling that first of all he owed Legs for saving his life, and secondly nothing could be worse than watching someone's brains get scooped back into their skull, got shakily to his feet and went to the corner. One of the men was lying there – it was the one that had punched him – the body was twisted, still. There was a red circle in the center of his forehead, about the size of a dime, about which was spattered a star-pattern in blood. He looked surprised. His eyes were wide open, and his tongue was clenched between his teeth, his lips drawn back in an aborted snarl.

            Michael looked away, fought down another wave of nausea, and tried to put the image out of his head. He knelt beside the man and sniffed. He could smell, over the faint scent of disinfectant and gunpowder, stale cigarette smoke. Tentatively he groped in the front breast pocket of the uniform, careful not to look at the man's face, and found a crinkly rectangular box. He withdrew it and saw it was a pack of Marlboroughs, half full. Fortunately the bullet had gone into the man's head and not his heart. Michael stood up and held them out.

            "Is this what you wanted, Legs?" he asked. His voice shook a little, and he grimaced impatiently. He wanted to be Strong and Brave, not whimper like a little boy. Legs grinned at him and pulled off his thin black gloves.

            "Fuckin' marvelous, this Mary-Ann," he said, his voice thick with gloating. "Ah, he's a nice little bugger – wang it here, mate."

            Michael thought perhaps he meant to throw it, but his hands were shaking so badly he was sure his aim would be way off, so instead he picked his way fastidiously over the twisted limbs of the fallen to where Legs sat, and Francis worked over him. "Here," he said, a little diffidently, putting the box in Legs' hand.

            "I owe yer, mate," said Legs. "Ah, pukka! Got a lighter in here already." He shook out a cigarette and a green lighter, put the filter between his lips and struck up a flame.

            "Éowyn's going to kill you," scolded Faramir, who was securing the strappings with tape. "You know how she feels about tobacco."

            "But she isn't here, is she, mate?" Legs took a deep drag on the cigarette, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "Ahhhh," he sighed as he exhaled. Blue smoke curled out of his nose and mouth, and Michael saw some seeping through the side of the bandages. He gave a weak chuckle. "What?" asked Legs around the cigarette.

            "You're leaking," said Michael. "Here. The smoke's coming out here, too." He pointed to a spot next to Legs' nose. It was most likely the crushed sinus giving way. Legs grinned at him, his one blue eye twinkling mischievously. He took another deep drag, pinched his nostrils shut and closed his mouth, and paused. Then a stream of smoke let loose from the side of his head, like a steam-engine letting fly. Michael laughed despite himself, and Francis shook his head, severely tamping down a mutinous smile.

            "You two," he said, exasperated and affectionate all at once. "Honestly, like kids, the both of you."

            "Give over," said Legs, putting the cigarette to his lips again. "If you don't laugh, you cry."

            That was certainly true, thought Michael ruefully. Now that Legs' face and head were wrapped neatly in white bandages, he didn't look so bad – if you discounted that sickening concavity over where his ear had been – but the rest of the room was harrowing in its aftermath of violence, and he didn't dare look too closely at the bodies.

            “All right," said Francis, patting the top of Legs' head with satisfaction. "Humpty-Dumpty has been put back together again. Hopefully, by the time we get to Miami, you'll have healed enough to take the bandages off."

            "Eh, probably," said Legs indifferently, getting up.

            Michael stared at them. For starters, how was it that Legs was alive after having half his brain shot out? Wasn't "dead" DEAD? And even if it weren't, how on earth could he think he'd fully heal in a scant few days – depending, of course, on how long it took them to get to Miami – Legs turned to say something to him, but suddenly leery Michael took a step back, and Legs paused, his face thoughtful. After a minute he smiled and reached up to his remaining ear, pulling the thick sheet of hair from around it.

            "Mike," he said gently. "Look."

            Michael tentatively crept forward, still unwilling to get too close to a potential Zombie or Vampire or Mummy, or something like that, from a horror flick. Legs tipped his head to the side, showing Michael his ear. It was – different – not round, like Michael had expected, it was curved – long, pointed, like a leaf from a crepe myrtle. Michael hadn't been able to see it before, obscured as it had been behind that shimmering curtain of blond hair, but there it was – alien, deformed, abnormal – inhuman.

            "Oh, my god," Michael whispered, his heart giving a hard ker-flump.

            "Explains a lot, doesn't it?" grinned Legs, letting the hair slide back into place and straightening up. "There you are, then, pet – not a fuckin' zombie, this undead shite's not on anyway. Just a delaying tactic on yer clever boyfriend's part."

            "You're not – not – " Michael couldn't bring himself to say it. so many strange and horrible things had happened – and yet – it made so much sense – it explained so much – and to deny the evidence of his own senses –

            "Not like you – leave it at that, mate," said Legs gently. "Now, come on, you lot. Longshanks is waiting, we'd best hoof it P.D.Q."

            He turned to the back corner of the room, and for the first time Michael noticed a panel in the ceiling had been removed, exposing HVAC ductwork, and he realized that was how Legs had entered the room – and that was how he was proposing they leave. He hoped they fit. He and Francis weren't very large men, but that looked to be a very, very small opening … He frowned, tilted his head to the side, and saw it was bigger than the opening beneath the chainlink fence. Yes, they could fit. He sighed in relief. He knew neither Legs nor Francis would have left him behind, but he didn't want to be an impediment any more – "All I've done is get in the way and delay them," he thought unhappily, remembering Legs coming to The Lido to fetch him, Frodo driving him up the mountain, Dr. Walker pushing water and granola bars on him, them having to set up a tent so he could sleep – really, it was rather debasing, knowing you were nothing more than spare luggage, and that it was only someone's good nature keeping you from being left somewhere, to be picked up later at their convenience. "I even got Legs shot," he thought miserably. "Even if he is a Vulcan or something, that must've really hurt. And it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been here." He sighed and wondered if Francis resented him – weak, cowardly, inefficient Michael, tagging along and slowing them down.

            A hand rested on his shoulder, and he jumped. It was Legs – how did he manage to walk so quietly, anyway? Was that part of his Alienness? Michael looked into his ruined face, at the smooth white cheekbone and delicate curve of the jaw, the long straight nose and broad forehead, the eye –

            He blinked and gulped, his heart going ker-flump again. The eye was GLOWING.

            Legs' expression was serene, relaxed. The cupids-bow lips smiled gently. "All have their purpose, and none are without worth," he said in an odd voice, a kind of hollow, echoey voice. "There is strength and courage in you that have only begun to be tapped."

            Michael stared. This was even weirder than seeing his skull hanging off. Legs looked remote, aloof, somehow absent. The neon shimmering eye hardly focused on him. He turned to Francis, bewildered and a little scared. His lover was studying Legs worriedly.

            "What does his future hold?" Francis asked. His voice was tense and fearful, and didn't sound as though he were addressing Legs at all – it was more as though he were talking to someone else, someone who was speaking through Legs' mouth. Perhaps he was, thought Michael. Considering how strange the past week had been, nothing seemed out of the bounds of his consideration at this point.

            Legs turned to him, a flicker of pity skittering across that alabaster face, half-obscured in surgical wrappings. "Death," he answered calmly. Francis blanched and bit his lip. "So it must be for all mortals."

            Francis struggled with that, dismay and anger fighting for control of his facial expression. Legs only stood serenely, seemingly unmoved by his pronouncement. "Why him?" asked Francis finally, in a strangled voice.

            "Do you again dispute our choice?"

            Francis stared at Legs, at the alien and gently indifferent face, flustered and despondent. He looked so melancholic Michael wanted to hug him, but obviously he and Legs were having some sort of Moment and to interrupt at this stage would be wildly inappropriate. There was evidently some sort of struggle going on, but there was no pressure or feeling of oppression this time, as there had been at The Lido. This time the skirmish was being carried on in Francis' mind alone. After a moment he dropped his eyes.

            "No," he whispered.

            "Be well, beloved Steward," said Legs. His hollow voice echoed with compassion and tenderness.

            Then there was the feeling of a rubber band snapping back, and the neon glow flickered out. Legs gasped and wavered, groping for the back of a chair to steady himself. "Bloody hell," he panted, closing his eye.

            Michael looked at Francis. He had covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. Michael didn't blame him – he felt like shaking himself. But whatever it was that had spoken to Francis through Legs had not frightened Michael – instead he felt oddly comforted. Putting his arms round Francis' waist, he laid his head on his lover's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Abruptly Francis' long arms came around him, holding him tight.

            Michael moved his cheek over the soft flannel shirt, feeling the tender swollen lid of his eye brush against a button. "He won't let me die until I'm finished being brave," he said. He wasn't sure how he knew it was true. He didn't even know who "he" was. He just knew it as Truth.

            Francis became very still. Then he tipped Michael's face up to his own with his fingers, staring down at him. His gray eyes were glazed with tears, and he looked astonished. Behind him Michael heard Legs chuckle weakly.

            "Got Manwë sussed, that one," he said shakily. "Come on, you two. You can snog later." And holding out his hand to Michael, he led him to the duct and gestured him in.


	14. A Way Out, that You may be Able to Bear It

  1. **A Way Out, So That You May Be Able to Bear it**



 

            The ducts were not quite high enough to crawl through. They had to lie on their stomachs and pull themselves along on their elbows and knees. It was very dusty and dark – Michael was glad he was hemmed in by Legs and Francis. He wouldn't have wanted to be alone in the close hot gloom – and now and again Legs would hush them, and they would lie still, listening to the faint shouts below them. Then it would die down and they would move on, sliding, pulling, trying to be as quiet as possible.

            Michael made a game of it with himself to keep his mind off of what the channeled Voice had said. Instead of thinking about his death, or even his courage, he occupied his thoughts by silently measuring out their progress, keeping in mind the layout of the building as far as he knew it. In his imagination he could see them worming their way from the horrible back room, across that part of the building he didn't know, but approaching the turn to Major-General Fitzpatrick's office. Then Legs led them left, that would bring them back to the rear door –

            There was a long pause then, when Legs didn't move. He whispered, "Wait here, mates," and squirmed forward. They heard a hollow clicking, and a shuddering flexing of metal. Then there was a scrabbling noise, and Legs was back. To Michael's surprise he appeared to have turned himself around in the narrow duct. He was apparently Very Flexible – handy in a tight spot like this, and – Michael smiled guiltily to himself, glad the dark hid his blush – handy in other sorts of Spots, too, most likely. He'd have to file that naughty little mental indulgence away to be fantasized over later.

            "Dead end, mates," Legs whispered. His face was a faint white disc in the thick blackness. If Michael stared really hard he could almost convince himself he could see the silky fall of his pale hair. "Something got pushed up in the way – think it's one of those bloody warehouse doors. Longshanks had too fucking much fun down there."

            "Can you move it?" whispered Francis from behind Michael.

            "Naw. Bring the whole bloody ceiling down and us with it. We need to turn round."

            "Easier said than done," grunted Francis. Michael could hear him trying to double in on himself, with much muttering and cursing.

            Being slighter, Michael had an easier time of it. At last they were all pointing back to where they'd come from, with Francis in front. "Interesting," thought Michael, panting slightly and smiling to himself. He and Francis were more flexible than he'd thought …

            "Where do we go?" Francis whispered, a little out of breath.

            There was silence behind them. Michael tried to look over his shoulder, though of course he could see nothing. "Legs?" he said in a hushed voice.

            "I'm thinking," said Legs. He sounded hesitant. "Fuck it all. I don't remember."

            "You don't REMEMBER?" demanded Francis, sounding irritated. "Dammit, Legolas – "

            "I must've left that memory splattered on the wall back there, okay?"

            "Oh, for heaven's sake – "

            "Where are we going?" interrupted Michael.

            "Nowhere, at the moment," said Francis sourly. Behind them Legs made an impatient noise.

            "No, I mean, where are we trying to get to? The front door or the back door by the helicopter?"

            "Front door," said Legs. "Back door's been taken down. Longshanks again."

            "Then we go this way," said Michael, pointing inanely in the dark. "Straight, Francis, and when you get to the T-intersection go left."

            The other two men were silent. After a moment he heard Francis' voice say hesitantly, "Um … how can you be so sure, darling?"

            "I can see it in my head," said Michael a little impatiently. "I came in that way, and I remember where it is. We're right over a part of the building about a hundred yards east of Major Fitzpatrick's office, and the front door is up a level and about two hundred fifty yards to the north-west, so if we go left at the T-intersection and crawl another twenty yards we'll hit the elevator shaft and we can go up that way."

            More silence. Michael swallowed nervously. Had he been wrong to speak? His unerring sense of direction was one of those things he never liked to advertise – mostly because it seemed like such an uncharacteristically useful thing for an Interior Designer to have. He'd rather pretend to be totally helpless and let others do the Heavy Thinking. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut and let the other two lead the way. He didn't usually put himself forward, having discovered after a lifetime of belittlement the verse from Proverbs was true about holding your tongue and being deemed wise. What would Francis say? Would he dismiss his suggestion with a "Don't mind him. He doesn't know what he's talking about," or, "Oh, be quiet, Michael. Anyone would think you knew what was going on." That was what he was used to, after all. Never so directly from Francis, of course. Francis was far too polite to actually vocalize something that bluntly rude – but Michael knew all too well that his lover regarded him with the same sort of exasperated affection one gives to a silly, superfluous lap dog, like his mother's Pomeranian.

            After a long moment Francis' voice, low but thick with humor, said, "I’m letting you drive from now on," and started slithering forward.

            Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Francis took him seriously after all – at least a little bit. Behind him he could hear Legs chuckling softly, though he made no other sound when he moved. It was kind of creepy – this moving without noise. Couple it with his ears, and his channeling, and his unearthly beauty, and in the final equation, thought Michael, you got some Extremely Freaky Shit. Not to mention the can't-be-killed concept. Wouldn't that scare anyone? Yet Michael didn't feel scared of Legs so much as intrigued – certainly not so much in a sexual sense any more. He had a feeling that fantasy would never play out anyway – but it would take an idiot to deny that Legs was extremely compelling. Though he still felt jealous, he figured he really couldn't blame Francis one bit. After all, given the opportunity …

            They heaved and squirmed and pulled themselves through the dusty ducts, following Michael's unerring directions. They had to stop rather more often than before to let the soldiers beneath them run by, lying quiet and still in the ceiling. Michael thought he knew now how it felt to be an urban rat, though without the sharp teeth and claws – nothing deadly about HIM – at last they reached a vent, a potential Way Out, through which filtered pale stripes of light, and muted voices.

            Francis edged forward, putting his eye to one of the slats, and looked down. Michael could see his face striated by blue-white fluorescent light, hair mussed, flannel shirt dotted with clots of dust, and felt the familiar wakening thrill in his heart – "It never fails," he thought sourly to himself. "I always desire Francis the most when I can't have him." The muscles in Francis' shoulder bunched as he shifted on his elbows, trying to see past the slats to the room below. At last he looked back at them and pursed his lips, looking frustrated.

            Behind him Michael heard Legs breathe softly: "Wait." So, just as Michael had done with Francis and Dr. Walker in the woods above the metal building, they lay on their stomachs and waited.

            Michael wished he knew what he was waiting for, and wished he knew what was going on in the room below them, that prevented their getting out of the hot dusty dark. Hell, for that matter he wished he knew what was Happening, Period – what the HELL were they doing, crawling around in the ducts of a spurious government facility that seemed to be developing biological weapons? What the HELL did they think they were doing, killing people and blowing up planes and erasing data from computers? And what the HELL was he doing here, him, Michael Morris, never-get-his-hands-dirty, screams-like-a-girl, designer-clothes-wearing Interior Designer Extraordinaire? If there were a yearbook superlative for Least Likely to be Concerned in an Anti-Government Plot Involving Large-Caliber Weaponry, Michael Anthony Morris would definitely head the list. He didn't even WANT to think about what his high school year book staff would have done, had they been able to peek, augur-like, into his future – instead of him being "Most Likely to Star in a Broadway Production" (which is what they'd pegged him for), he could just see it, printed beneath his self-conscious, blue-tuxedoed smirk: "Michael A. Morris. Most Likely to be Convicted of Treason."

            Then again, Legs so far had shown remarkable capability in the James-Bondage theme. It was likely nothing untoward would happen to them after all. He had managed to pull miracle after miracle out of – well, wherever people pulled miracles – considering the nature of Miracles, it seemed a little irreverent to say Legs pulled them out of his ass, but he thought perhaps Legs would appreciate that particular brand of humor. No, between Legs and Francis, Michael felt fairly confident they would escape unharmed. Always assuming, of course, whatever it was they were waiting for would happen …

            Lying in the heat and darkness, Michael was mildly surprised to feel his eyelids droop. He didn't know why this should come as any shock to him – considering what he'd been up to the past four days (had it REALLY been four days? He was starting to lose count), he should have been more surprised that he was still awake and functioning. Then again, adrenaline did odd things to people.

            He hoped the horrible events of the last few hours didn't come back to Haunt Him. "No more nightmares," he pleaded, feeling vaguely as though he were speaking to the Voice that Legs had channeled. "Please, help me to forget …"

            He was so drowsy. It was odd he should feel able to sleep under such circumstances – dirty, sore, hungry, thirsty, in danger – yet all he wanted to do was to let his eyelids slide shut over his hot sandy eyes. It was so soothing to feel the warm liquid caress them, and that comfortable languor about his shoulders, that was Very Nice … he drifted, drowsy, sated, weightless, in the shimmering dark, suspended over the dim dusty floor, floating toward the pale light before him, incurious, lethargic.

            It was unnerving, though, to see Legs standing there before him, tall, slim, clothed in light, his face restored to its familiar perfection. His eyes, glowing blue, were fixed with reverent contemplation upon the Throne.

            Michael knew instinctively to keep his own eyes from the Throne – the One who sat thereon was kindly, benevolent, but it was not his place to look upon Him. Instead he looked at the Throne's base, thick heavy legs carved of some pale wood, intricately fashioned with whorls and coils and twining stylized vines and leaves and flowers, mannered and graceful, resting upon the smooth shining floor, shining like glass, like sunlight on still water.

            "Forget not, but be soothed, Little One," whispered Legs, turning to him with a smile. How strange. He wasn't speaking English. How was it Michael could understand him? But then Legs circled, looking behind them, his eyebrows drawn down in wings over his cerulean eyes. Then like a flash of lightning the joy illuminated his face, his eyes alight, his mouth curved into an open smile. Michael turned around, and saw a woman, tall, golden-haired, luminously lovely, silver eyes alight with tenderness –

            "Éowyn – "

            The woman smiled, gazing upon her husband, shining eyes overflowing with love. Legolas turned to her eagerly, hand outstretched, and she answered the gesture, not touching, but reaching, though her hands with their long thin fingers were dripping with fresh blood.

            Michael jerked awake, heart hammering. It was still dark, still musty, still muffled in the duct. What had THAT been? Another Nightmare? Michael remembered his Nightmare and realized it had been a premonition of sorts. What on earth had THIS dream meant?

            But then he felt Legs' hand on his back. He turned his head, seeing the stark white bandages over the ivory face. The eye was thoughtful, reading his doubts and apprehensions. Michael blinked back at him, uneasy with the thought Legs might be able to see into his dreams – see his secrets and fantasies and guilty desires, particularly for him, this pale-haired incubus. But Legs only smiled, and removed his hand before Francis could notice.

            With an abruptness that made Michael jump and stifle a frightened squeak, there was an explosion of sound beneath them – men shouting, the sound of gunfire – Francis glanced back at Legs, saw some sort of confirmation there, drew back, and with a sharp rap of his fist popped the grate off the end of the duct where they lay. Michael heard it hit the floor just as Francis slithered out of the duct, head-first, pistol drawn. He turned to ask Legs what he should do, then felt the man's hands shove him roughly by the buttocks up to the end of the duct. With a startled yelp, Michael fell all the way down to the floor below them.

            He pushed himself up on his hands, looking around him wildly. He felt rather than heard Legs land over him, one big booted foot on either side of his torso. He realized with a shock of unexpected pleasure that Legs was still going to protect him. They had not actually ended up in a room at all – they were in the front entrance hall, looking out at the doors, which were open to the growing dawn. Someone dressed in black was standing there, a large ugly pistol in each hand, firing steadily around them. Michael realized with horror that Francis was standing right in the Line of Fire. He staggered to his feet with an incoherent gurgle, felt Legs grasp him unceremoniously by his collar and drag him forward.

            He watched with a sort of sick dismay the black-clad figure firing with chilling precision – soldiers fell, one per shot, as it ran forward, dodging whatever bullets were aimed at it – Michael heard Legs shout at him to run, felt Francis grasp him by the hand and pull him right towards the flashing guns. He tried to pull back, tried to tell Francis that it made No Sense to run TOWARDS someone who was shooting at them, but then he felt Legs take him by the other hand and he was half-dragged between them right up to the tall menacing figure.

            They were twenty feet away, ten – shot after shot went between them, past them, around them. Michael heard the last lingering cries of the soldiers behind them – the black-clad figure fired three more shots. He could have sworn he felt the bullets whistle by his head – he realized with yet another shock (surely he'd become immune to them eventually) that the figure firing at them was Mrs. Walker. She looked focused, a little angry, her silver eyes glaring over the tops of her handguns past them to the chaos inside – before Michael could even gasp out a hurried "hello" he was jerked past her, pelting out the building into the clear cold night air. He saw out of the corner of his eye Legs stop and turn, likewise aiming his gun – what had Major-General Fitzpatrick called it, a Glock? – at the pursuing soldiers and firing with the same expression of patient concentration on his face. One bullet per soldier – really, he and Mrs. Walker were Very Efficient.

            There was a terribly loud thudding noise, and something large and bulky and covered in lights – Francis pelted full-speed toward it, dragging Michael along behind him, stumbling on the dark asphalt – a bullet whistled over their heads. Francis said a Very Bad Word and flung Michael up to the – the – oh, it was the helicopter. Dr. Walker must've successfully stolen it after all – Michael scrabbled on the edge of the door. It was a lot higher up than he'd expected. Once again he felt someone grab him, heave him up into the body of the helicopter, where he landed in an untidy heap on the floor, cracking his head in the process on some sharp corner.

            Francis sprang up beside him, breathing hard. Then there was a sickening lurch, and they were in the air. Not very high though – five feet, ten – Michael turned around, looking out the door – he saw Legs sprinting towards them, his white strappings seeming almost to glow in the dimness – he leapt, caught the edge of the door, pulled himself in, and turned, reaching out one hand into the noisy darkness. Michael saw another hand, white and small, grasp it. With an abrupt jerk, Mrs. Walker landed on the floor next to Michael.

            "Hold on," shouted Dr. Walker from the cockpit, and with an increase of noise Michael felt his stomach drop – they ascended. The sound of gunfire became an insignificant thing, mere pops beneath the cacophony – then it faded altogether.

            Michael carefully rolled over and sat up. He had knocked his sore eye again, and it was throbbing. He looked around the helicopter. It was surprisingly small, for the amount of noise it was making. Of course, it didn't help things that there was a very large motorcycle taking up most of the room. He recognized it as Legs' Harley and wondered if Mrs. Walker had damaged it at all, and if she had, if he would be angry or not. From what they had said, he rather thought Not. He turned. Francis had risen and slid into the second seat in the cockpit, picking up a pair of headphones as he buckled himself in. Dr. Walker looked at him calmly.

            "Shouldn't you let Legs do that?" he shouted over the noise.

            Francis jerked his thumb into the back of the helicopter. "No depth perception. Bad idea."

            Dr. Walker turned around, looked back at them, flicking his cool, competent gaze across each one of them. Michael felt him linger over his black eye, Mrs. Walker appraisingly, then land on Legs' head. "What happened?" he yelled.

            "Got shot," Legs yelled back.

            The corner of Dr. Walker's mouth quirked up. "Again?" he asked, grinned at Legs' unmistakable gesture, and turned back to his controls. Michael stared aghast at Legs. "Again"? That was an unnerving concept.

            Then, suddenly, with all the thrilling rush of the realization that it's Christmas morning when you wake up, it came to him – they were Out. They had Escaped. They were Safe.

            Michael hid his face in his hands and started to shiver. Was he cold? He felt cold. There was wind whistling and whirling all around them, and it was terribly noisy. His limbs felt very stiff and weak all at once, and his heart began to batter even harder than it had been doing before. His breath came short and painful, and his head felt light and empty. He hoped no one would notice him huddled on the floor – how he hated to cause a fuss – but then he felt a warm arm slip round his shoulders and he leaned into it gratefully. He felt soft curves, a giving fleshiness, and realized it was Mrs. Walker. She said something, obviously not to him because it wasn't in English, and then he felt another warm body on his other side – slim, lean, hard – Legolas. He too put his arm around Michael, and between those two he felt safe, and his trembling began to subside.

            Rich, pungent pine to his left. lush sweetness like jasmine to his right. Silky hair falling over his hands, strong fingers holding him tight. More lyrical language, like music really, caressing his ears and soothing his hammering heart. No, it really WAS music – they were singing, and though he couldn't understand the words, the song comforted him deeply, much more profoundly than any soothing speech in his own tongue. It was trees, and warm loam, and soft moss, and flickering starlight in the welcoming kindly dark. He felt warm and drowsy again – felt himself slide a little to the side, the weight of his body resting on something – a woman's voice, dulcet and benign, whispering unknown solace to him – then peace, and darkness, and a calming torpor, and he allowed the downy dark to enfold him.


	15. Miami

  1. **Miami**



 

 

"Of course, I thought you'd already made it past that junction, or I'd've never taken the door down."

"Not a problem, mate. Worked out, didn't it? Good thing we had Faramir's little Tour Director with us, though. Fuck, never lost my way like that before."

"I strongly suspect it had something to do with your leaving half your gray matter next to Fitzpatrick's body."

That voice – it awoke such pleasant memories in him. The first two were still strange, still a little unnerving. Drifting slowly up out of a dim and soothing sleep, Michael struggled to focus a moment – where was he – what had happened – he was lying down on something soft, and it was nice and quiet –

He sat up with an abrupt gasp when it all came back to him. The soldiers, the Major-General, the guns, the blood –

"Hush." Francis was there, quiet, competent, strong. Yes, there was his scent – cold stone, clean dirt – Unfair, really, he never smelled of B.O. no matter how long he went between showers – and oh, yes, there were those long muscular arms wrapping around him, holding him close against a flannelly firm chest, cradling his head, pressing a kiss on his hair, chasing all the residual terrors away, like moths scattering when you shake out an old coat. Michael's arms sprang about him, feeling the pull and play of muscle beneath the soft shirt, tucking his face beneath Francis' chin and clinging to him desperately. It was over – over – oh, please, say it's over –

"Ain't over 'til the fat lady sings," came Legolas' voice, tight with amusement. "Naw, mate, got an arseload to do yet. All serene now, though. Time for a bit of a breather."

Unnerving, how Legolas could read his mind. Michael pulled away a little, peeked over Francis' bicep to where Legolas sat, knees drawn up to his chest, arms slung round his legs, head freshly wrapped in new strappings, smoking a cigarette and grinning at him. A long twisty coil of smoke rose from the side of his face – obviously, that sinus hadn't closed up yet. The blue eye was clear and twinkling, the hair sleek and shining, out of its confining plait and tucked behind the smooth sweep of his ear.

"When WILL the fat lady sing?" Michael asked, disgusted by his own voice. It sounded small and petulant.

"When the last man dies," said Legolas, bringing the cigarette to his mouth.

Michael watched him, fascinated. Legolas drew in the smoke, his pink lips pursed around the filter. He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a soft stream, lips in an O. "He's either teasing me or flirting with me," thought Michael, mollified. If Legs were being so relaxed, obviously they were out of any Immediate Danger. He settled down into Francis' chest with a sigh, willing himself to slacken. His spine had held itself so tight, he was surprised he could even bend it.

The Last Man … who would that be? Michael tried to remember the strained, horrific conversation between Francis and Fitzpatrick – a virus – computer programs – senators – and some doctor, some doctor with an Asian name. The computers and the virus seemed to have been taken care of in the Metal Building, but the senators and the doctor, was one of them the Last Man? And who would kill them? Francis had said something about lots of them, more than fifteen at least – was someone else going to do it?

He remembered his dream then, if it had been a dream – the lovely golden woman, slender and strong and bloody – he looked back at Legolas, who was grinding his spent cigarette into the ground. They were sitting in a circle around a small black box, the Walkers, Legolas, Francis, and him. The motorcycle was propped up behind Legolas, lean and bowed like a crouching predator, and to the right against the pale sky was the spiky bulk of the helicopter. That woman – Éowyn. Legolas' wife. Francis had spoken of her to Dr. Walker, thinking Michael couldn't hear him – fearless, careless, like Legs was himself. "Those two hear clearly," Dr. Walker had said. Michael thought he knew what it was now that Legolas and Éowyn could hear. It was Him – the one on the wooden Throne, the one he couldn't look at. That was who they were listening to.

"Close," said Legolas, his voice dropping like an ice cube into the stillness. Everyone else looked at him, puzzled, but Michael knew what he meant. Michael felt Francis stir, turn to Legolas, still holding Michael tightly.

"I suppose this means I can't bring him home now," said Francis, his voice stiff and a little gravelly.

"Naw." Legs tucked the butt in his pocket and leaned back on his palms, smiling through his lashes at them. "Miami first."

"How long will it take to get to Miami?" asked Michael in a small voice.

"Depends on how reliable the freight trains are hereabouts," said Dr. Walker with a smile.

*******************************

 

All in all, it took three days to get to south Florida. First they had to wait for Mrs. Walker to blow up the helicopter ("Seems an awful waste of a perfectly good mode of transportation," Michael had complained, before having it explained to him that the Army would be on the lookout for it, and anyway, they hadn't enough fuel), then they made the hike across the northern border of Arizona to the nearest freight depot.

Dr. Walker called it "going hobo." Legs called it "jacking a train." Francis called it "utilizing the goodwill of the conductors without their consent." Mrs. Walker just smiled and said nothing. Blowing up the helicopter had put her in a very good humor. It wasn't until two days later that Michael realized Legolas' Harley had been inside it at the time.

They managed to ride undetected the entire journey, tucked back in the empty freight cars, huddled beneath overturned boxes and stacked flats draped with tarps. Only once were they in any danger, when a night-watchman in Texas became a little too interested in their deserted car. They lay still and silent, listening to his feet approach. Michael could see Legolas, outlined against the glimmering blue tarp, face upturned, tense and alert. In his hand he held his switchblade, open and ready.

"Oh, please, go away," Michael silently begged the man, as he paced to and fro in the dusty car, flicking his flashlight around in the dusty corners idly. "You have no idea how much danger you're in. Go away; go back to your post, so you can go home to your family in the morning."

He closed his eyes as the tapping footsteps drew nearer, not wanting to see Legolas burst forth from their hiding place, knife outstretched, shedding silent innocent blood. His heart already ached for the man's wife and children, no doubt asleep in their beds awaiting his return, only to get that gruff-voiced call heralding their family's shattering. But after a pause the footsteps turned, retreated. They heard him jump out of the car, heard the door slide noisily closed, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Fuck, that was too bloody close," breathed Legolas, closing his knife with a soft snick. "Glad he scarpered."

 _I hate killing patriots_ , Michael remembered Legolas saying, and this man hadn't even been a patriot – just some guy doing his job. Michael was glad Legs hadn't killed him, not only for the man's sake, but for Legolas', as well. More death, more violence, more blood – how much could a guy take, even if he were an Alien?

There was very little to drink, and almost nothing to eat. Once, during a protracted stop in Louisiana, Legs and Mrs. Walker slipped silently out of the car and slid into the darkness. They returned an hour later, their pockets full of bottled water, Little Debbie snack cakes, and beef jerky. They ate their strange meal after the train rumbled away again, safe in the noise and swaying darkness. Michael thought of what his grandmother used to say when he and his sister would eat so ravenously on the Farm – "Hunger's the best sauce, children" – wise woman! Michael was so hungry even the jerky tasted good, and as a rule he didn't care for dried meats.

They lay, hour after hour, rocking with the movement of the train, curled up together on a pile of packing blankets, now dozing, now drowsing, deafened by the roar and clatter of the wheels on the tracks, and the occasional heart-stopping blasts of the warning-horn. Dr. and Mrs. Walker would speak quietly to each other in some strange language, gazing into each other’s' eyes tenderly. Legolas paced, or peered out the cracks by the door at the hurrying landscape, or chewed fretfully on matchsticks he'd found in a box in the corner.

"Oral fixation," Dr. Walker had said calmly, gesturing at the blonde’s agitated rummaging about for something to put in his mouth. "Had it for ages. That's why he took up smoking."

Legs had thrown out the cigarettes before they'd even boarded the train, much to everyone's relief, and spent the rest of the time looking for something – anything – to chew on. "Worse after a bloody big job like this," he'd sighed, ruffling his pale hair around the dirty strappings. "But if I pick up the habit again, Éowyn'll never fuckin' forgive me."

To Michael's surprise, Francis seemed quietly affectionate during the trip. Oh, he didn't kiss or fumble furtively in the dark for him – not that Michael would have felt comfortable getting it on with Legolas and the Walkers watching, though his libido boiled and bubbled within him through his deprivation – but when Michael sat down, Francis was beside him. When Michael lay down, Francis lay down too. When Michael would turn to Francis, eyes scared and confused, Francis was there, smiling gently, comforting, soothing.

At times Michael caught the suppressed desire in Francis' eyes, kindling a spark of yearning in the dark man's face, instantly concealed, but Michael recognized it, and his heart would leap, wanting nothing more than to roll over on top of his lover and kiss him senseless. Of course he didn't – it wouldn't have been Right. But through his frustration and longing for Francis' touch, Michael was reassured all the same – there might still be Not-Discussed topics (more than ever, really) between them, but their physical want for each other had not diminished in the slightest. It wasn't much, but it was Something.

Michael was all the more surprised at Francis' reaction to him because of the way he knew he looked and smelled. He'd never been able to grow a proper beard, and his facial hair was shaggy and unkempt and patchy. His clothes were dirty and spattered with blood (and Worse). He was unwashed and unplucked and unexfoliated and unloofaed and uncologned, and still … still Francis watched him jealously as he spoke to Legolas. Still Francis would steal a sly kiss or surreptitious squeeze. Still when they sat together on the floor of the rattling, swaying car there would not be enough space to slide a sheet of paper between them. It was odd – perfect, controlled, exacting, orderly, efficient Francis didn't seem to mind his filthy and untidy state – didn't even seem to notice. "All those toiletries for nothing," thought Michael resignedly to himself. Here all this time he'd assumed hygienic perfection was Required by his Alpha.

From time to time, Dr. Walker would unwrap the bandages to check Legolas' face. The repugnant concavity had filled in, and the skin had grown over the gaping hole where his eye and cheekbone had been. Still the curved ear was shattered through, and the eye socket empty, mocking the perfection of their counterparts. The new skin was white and pasty, lacking the abalone quality of the rest of his face, and thin as parchment, jutting over bone and flesh, stretched and striated and wrinkled.

"Not bad," Dr. Walker said with satisfaction on the third day, rewrapping Legolas' head. "Not bad at all. By the time we get to Norman Island, Éowyn shouldn't have any trouble recognizing you."

"I don't think it's his face she'll be interested in," said Mrs. Walker dryly from where she sat. Her beautiful face was marred by black smudges and her clothes were a wreck, but she hadn't lost any of her composure. She sat, hair just as glossy and smooth as it had ever been, watching the proceedings with thinly disguised boredom. She even rolled her eyes when Legs turned to her, grinning.

"Ah, won't be at that, will it, pet?" he drawled, holding still while Dr. Walker fastened the strappings. "After two fuckin' months, she'll be wantin' to get the leg over for a right good shag – not that I can bloody well blame her, mind. Feelin' that way meself."

Francis stirred, looking at Legolas curiously. Gone was the look of combined disapproval and apprehension with which he had originally regarded Legolas. Michael wasn't sure when exactly the change had occurred, but they seemed to be on more comfortable footing.

"Not to sound rude," he said hesitantly, "but have you always been this horny? Or was it just some latent part of your personality that Éowyn managed somehow to awaken? Because I don't remember your being like this before." At Legolas' raised eyebrow Francis added stiffly, "Don't answer if you'd rather not." He gave a self-mocking smile. "After all, I realize I have no right to ask, all things considered."

Michael bit his lip, feeling a little uncomfortable. How could their sexual relationship possibly have been stilted or cold? Francis was such a Tiger in bed, and Legolas so beautiful … then he was struck by a Pleasant Thought. Francis had nothing to complain about with HIM. That must have been Nice for a change. Feeling a little smug, Michael nestled back on the pile of packing blankets they were using as a couch, cuddling against Francis' side and reveling not only in the warmth radiating off him, but in the comfortable assurance Legolas could not HELP but notice.

But Legolas didn't seem to notice Michael's complacent snuggling, though Francis' question did surprise him a bit. "Naw, mate, no worries. Getting' into Éowyn's knickers wasn't the trigger what made me this way. Was Manwë blagged me into it, and Yavanna gave me the hots for her. Not a fucking lot I could do about it, either. Has its compensations, though."

Francis frowned, eyebrows drawn over his eyes, puzzled. "You didn't always desire her?" he asked, surprised. "Not even when we – " he stopped, blushed deeply, and glanced at Michael, who felt his heart sink again. Legolas laughed.

"Want to start another open discussion about fidelity, do yer, Faramir?" he asked, his blue eye twinkling. Francis flushed a darker shade of red, glancing guiltily at Dr. Walker. Mrs. Walker sighed and rose to her feet.

"I'm not sure that would be very appropriate – under the circumstances," she said disapprovingly, running her white hands through the glossy midnight of her hair. "Let's try to have a little consideration for external parties. Besides, I'm pretty sure Michael doesn't want to hear it either. Do you, Michael?"

"Not particularly," admitted Michael, trying not to look at Francis for fear he might be angry with him. "I mean, can't we just enjoy what's happening NOW and not worry about what happened THEN? We can't change it anyway." He felt Francis' body stiffen, then relax. Had he said the Right Thing? He hoped he had. Then he felt a long strong arm slip about his waist, squeeze him close, and he sighed in relief. It had been the Right Thing. He looked up at Mrs. Walker and smiled tentatively, reassured when she smiled warmly back, though he wasn't sure if she was necessarily smiling just at him, or at him and Francis. Either way, it felt nice, knowing Francis approved of what he said, knowing Mrs. Walker liked him, knowing both Dr. Walker and Legolas felt protective of him. He felt a warm wash of wellbeing and contentment flood him from his fluttering heart down to his fingertips, and nestled further into the strong circle of Francis' arm, wishing he were a cat so he could purr.

He watched Mrs. Walker, absently, his aesthetic sense pleased with her general appearance, and wondered when he'd realized she was an Alien like Legolas. It hadn't been the sudden sweeping blow for her that it had been in the Metal Building, when Legolas had shown him his ear. It had been a gradual comprehension, the awareness growing organically out of his observations and falling unerringly into place in his mind. Skin tone, the shape of the eyes, the gloss of the hair, the long, lean, slim strength of them both, the clear shimmering quality of their voices. Seeing the curved point of her ear peeking out between the sheets of her dark hair only confirmed what he'd suspected for days.

He supposed he ought to be frightened or apprehensive – Aliens, after all! What if they pulled out their phasers and shot him? – but though they were strange it was hard to be truly frightened of them. "Probably because they're so pretty," he thought, and feeling a little drowsy he settled down onto the musty blankets and drifted languidly into sleep.

The glow made him turn his head. Though it was very bright, he was surprised to find he didn't need to squint at all. He could see a vague form in the glow, bluish-white, familiar. It was Legolas, hands upraised, speaking. The light came from the Throne, and Michael lowered his eyes – he wasn't supposed to look.

But then he heard the Voice, and the compulsion to look up was almost overwhelming, even though he couldn't understand what the Voice was saying. He began to tremble. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't – then Legolas was there, his hand on Michael's elbow, leading him forward. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he couldn't look. Light pressure on his shoulder indicated he should kneel, so Michael knelt, eyes fixed on the Throne's legs, shaking violently with fear. But then he felt Legolas' hand on his head, running his long fingers through his curls, and he spoke.

"It is no small thing, my lord, to demand this of him. His heart is great and his love for the Steward is very deep. We well may doubt Faramir's true intent, but this Little One's soul is pure and unsullied. I would beg of you to reconsider."

"It is not mine to decide, Beloved Listener," said the Voice, deep, resonant. It contained therein the shivering shimmering music of starlight and moonlight, and seemed to cleave Michael's heart in two with its cold precision. "His soul is under the care of Oromë, though the Little One in his simple ignorance has no concept of his protection. Would you pit my wishes against my brother's? It would be easier to ask your Shieldmaiden to bring this supplication before Lady Yavanna. She is tender-hearted and easily swayed by your arguments."

"My Heartbeat will speak as do I," Legolas said. His voice was polite but firm, as though he would not accept a negative answer. "What ill has this Little One committed, that he should be subjected to this? I say to you again that this burden ought rather to be placed on another's shoulders."

"Yours, by preference." The Voice sounded amused. Legolas shrugged.

"Why not, my lord?" he asked. "It has ever been my joy to submit to the will of the Valar."

"Only when you agree with our intentions," sighed the Voice. "Very well. I shall speak with Námo and Oromë."

Michael stared hard at the legs of the Throne, hoping this would be over soon. But then he felt the Voice looking at him, studying him, could feel the weight of its regard on the back of his neck. He shivered and huddled on the shining floor, wanting nothing more than to melt into an insensible puddle of sweat.

"You see, my lord?" whispered Legolas. He knelt beside Michael, but not in an attitude of deference. He had his arms around Michael's shoulders, holding him up. "He is an innocent. He deserves the Blessings of Ossë, not his curse. Well do I know the caprices of that restless Vala! Have I not contended with him before, when I was but a lone Sinda upon the ocean of the West? And think you upon the Steward, and upon his current state. Would you wrest this from him, just when he stands upon the cusp of his sanctification? Would you, my lord? I had thought you to be a benevolent and merciful Vala, but perhaps in all these millennia I was mistaken." His voice was reproachful, and Michael marveled at his audacity. For himself he wouldn't have dared speak so to the Voice. But the Voice chuckled.

"You are nothing if not persistent, Beloved Listener!" he said, and the weight of his hand pressed upon Michael's back – warm, shielding, blessing. "Would you have me go then unto Ilúvatar Himself and plead for this Little One's life?"

"I would, my lord," said Legolas firmly.

"Then I shall so do. How can I refuse anything of you, O Listener, when you have proved yourself so faithful in the past?"

Then Michael got the sense of the Voice looking at something different, something far away. "It is time, Listener," he said. "Bring this Little One back. You have arrived."

"Thank you, my lord," said Legolas. He took Michael by the hand and raised him to his feet. Michael looked up at him. He was smiling, achingly beautiful, glowing blue eyes tender yet adamant. "Come, Little One. We have much to do."

With a wrench, the light vanished and Michael was cold, sitting up on the blankets in the dusty musty dark. He stared about him. The others were watching Legolas, who stood, eye abstracted, though the light on him was fading. Then he seemed to come back to himself, and he looked thoughtfully down at Michael. The other three followed his gaze, looking at him as well, and Michael swallowed.

"We're here," said Legolas unnecessarily, flicking a glance at Francis. "Smell that? Sea water. Good thing we're close to the docks."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Walker impatiently. "What did Manwë tell you?"

Legolas looked at Michael. "Well," he said slowly, then stopped. He looked at Mrs. Walker. "None of yer fuckin' business," he said with a cocky smile, and before she could hit him opened the door and jumped out into the darkness.


	16. Semi Impermeable

  1. **Semi-Impermeable**



 

 

Michael had never been to Miami before, and found himself wondering why anyone in their right mind would ever want to visit voluntarily. He had to keep reminding himself that they were NOT in the Right Section of Town and he had NO right to prejudge – heaven knew he'd suffered that enough in the past – but still, this was the filthiest, darkest, smelliest, scariest place he'd been to.

Barring the Metal Building, of course.

Odd to think it was half the country away – odd to think the US Army was out looking for them and for the helicopter they'd stolen. Odd to think they'd destroyed a plane and a helicopter and a motorcycle and killed all those men, all for a theoretical twenty million people. Odd to think he'd lost his job, his apartment, his clothes, his watch, his digital camera, contact with his family and friends because of something that was supposed to happen in North Korea. Odd to think he was in company with two Aliens and their friends.

Odd to think Francis was friends with Aliens.

Odder still to think Francis had SLEPT with an Alien.

He watched Legolas stride before them, black against the flickering lights, slim, upright, confident, pale hair swinging from side to side across his shoulders. Did Tab A fit into Slot B? He LOOKED so human, and yet …

He remembered the Voice, and Legolas pleading for his life. That was the oddest part still.

Why should he die? Or for that matter, why not? Why should that iridescent, powerful being sitting upon his Throne care one way or another? And why should Legolas care so definitely in one direction? If he and Francis had parted on such ambivalent terms, why should Legolas care if Francis were heartbroken or not? From what Michael had heard, the Breakup was sure to have been Francis' fault – wouldn't Legolas have rather had Revenge?

Well … no. Legolas didn't seem the type. The sort of person who would kill an innocent man to preserve the lives of twenty million strangers wasn't one to worry too much about petty things like love affairs and cheap reprisals. And someone who would risk being blown to pieces, whether he could really Die or not, just to save the life of a mediocre homosexual interior designer, would probably not think it odd to stick his neck out to save someone's life, no matter who it was.

Michael had so many questions … so many things he wanted to ask Francis, but he was so afraid of Francis' refusal.

Well, not the Refusal necessarily – he didn't want to upset this shaky armistice they'd reached, not only between the two of them, but between Francis and this – this bunch of weirdo Mission-Impossible types. He'd been so stiff, uncomfortable, angry, scared before. Now they seemed comfortable together – joking, sharing stories, smiling and laughing. A Smiling and Laughing Francis was much more easy to get along with than a Stiff and Unfriendly one. Asking questions, however, still seemed to fall into the Disapproving-Glance-producing, Not-Discussed category. For example.

How did Francis get involved in this group?

How did they come together, anyway? Were they superheroes bent on saving the world from Bad Guys?

Where did Legolas and Mrs. Walker come from? Aliens didn't just wander around Planet Earth mingling with Humans … did they? That was an awkward thought. Michael thought about it anyway, and found himself theorizing his ninth grade biology teacher might have been an Alien too. All the evidence pointed in that direction, after all. I mean, really. Blue hair, and a tattoo of a spatula? No human could possibly be that weird by accident.

Why were they killing all these people and destroying all this stuff? Was it Absolutely Necessary? Twenty million people – but how did they KNOW? Did the Voice on his Throne tell them? And how did HE know?

And how, how, how did Legolas do what he did? How did he escape the fragile trap of his physical form and stand upon the shining abalone floor of that Place, stand before Whoever He Was, garner wisdom, argue ethics, gain instruction?

And how was Michael joining him? Was it somehow part of his nature, or was Legolas drawing him in somehow?

Why him? Why Michael Morris? What was so special about HIM? Why was he even THERE? "To ensure Faramir's participation," Frodo had said. Well, that may have applied at the beginning of all this, but surely Francis would willingly participate NOW. Hadn't Dr. Walker convinced him? Hadn't he proved himself before Major-General Fitzpatrick, bluffing long enough so Legolas could revive and kill the bastard? What, what, what the hell was so special about him that required his presence? Why couldn't he go home NOW?

And who was Ossë, and why did he want to kill him? What was a Vala? If Ossë was anything like the Voice who sat upon the Throne, Michael was pretty sure he was dead no matter what arguments Legolas brought forward. That much power – that much presence … but what had the Voice said. was there another one he could appeal to? Some name that started with Y, what was it again? All these bizarre names – Legolas, Faramir, Frodo, Arwen, Ossë … what was wrong with Bob or Fred? They'd be easier to remember, at least.

Most of all, though, why HIM?

They paused in the grimy shadow of a rusty metal shack on the dock, slimy with evaporated sea water, oil, and mold, and waited in the darkness for Legolas. Michael could just see him walk up to the little knot of prostitutes under the flickering street light, could see the three women straighten up, flip their hair, tug their short lycra skirts down over their ample bottoms. Michael couldn't discern the individual words, but he could hear the voices – Legolas, firm, light, clear, incisive. The prostitutes, brassy, giggling, shrill. One of them was smoking. After a few moments' banter she gave a cigarette to Legolas and lit it for him, making a big thing of leaning over so her loose jiggling breasts fell into clear view.

Legolas stood, his long pale hair gleaming in the wan light, looking slim and strong and lovely compared to the battered detritus of mankind's pitiless libido. Michael looked closer at the prostitutes and realized with a pang they were all very dirty and bruised and shabbily dressed, and one of them had needle track marks on her pasty arms. Far from being disgusted by them anymore, he felt deeply sorry for them. It still puzzled him, though, why Legolas was speaking to them at all. Wouldn't his wife get mad?

No – that was Stupid. That gorgeous golden creature, jealous of these poor leftover whores? No woman could possibly be that foolish. Besides, just to look at Legolas standing there, smoking, chatting and laughing, you could tell he felt nothing but compassionate interest in them. He listened, smiling, conscientious, responsive. He joked with them, jollied them out of their cheap seductiveness into good humor, so that in laughter their faces were almost pretty. After fifteen minutes, though, Michael's attention began to wander, and he sighed impatiently.

"Shhh," chided Dr. Walker, who was watching attentively around the corner of the metal shack. He glanced back at Michael with a disapproving frown, and Michael, pouting a little, folded his arms over his chest, feeling secure enough in Arwen's influence over her husband that Dr. Walker wouldn't object. Francis smiled at this exchange, and took Michael round the waist, hugging him close.

Michael stretched up to Francis' face, pressed his lips against his lover's ear. This had the added benefit of not only being quiet but titillating as well, and he could tell from the sudden tightening of Francis' grip it had worked acceptably. "Why is he bothering with this?" he asked edgily.

Francis turned Michael in his arms, pressed the smaller man's body up against his own and in turn put his own mouth up to Michael's ear. His breath warmed and tickled, and Michael shivered appreciatively. "Never underestimate the amount of intelligence you can glean from a prostitute," he murmured, soft enough for only Michael to hear. "They hear and see everything – why do you think their poor lives are so pitiably short?"

That surprised Michael – not so much that prostitutes would be good for reconnaissance, but that neat-freak Francis would feel so empathetically inclined to a common hooker.

He nestled down in Francis' embrace, thinking about it as hard as his sleep-deprived, low-blood-sugared mind could make it. After a few moments he gave up, thinking A) he as yet had insufficient data with which to make hypotheses, and B) he was too damn tired to care. From lowly programmer to Dr. Steward, from anal-retentive white-collar worker to commando, from cold and disapproving companion to Snuggle-Bunny. This might indeed have been the Worst Week of His Life, but on the positive side (Michael could always see the positive side), Francis was MUCH easier to live with.

After another fifteen minutes Legolas gave money to the three women, who seemed surprised by this. He spoke seriously to them for a moment, then kissed them each on their foreheads. They stared at him as he walked away, hurriedly tucking the money into their shirts, glancing now and then at each other, or behind them, as though they were looking for a Hidden Camera, or a policeman. Dr. Walker gestured Arwen, Francis, and Michael further back into the shadows, and Legolas approached them, gave them a curt nod, and they melted quietly into the dark alleys.

They followed him for another twenty minutes, not speaking, walking the hollow-sounding docks with muffled footsteps. The air was heavy and humid, and smelled of rotten fish, and gasoline, and garbage. Everything was dirty, and slimy, and rusty, and somewhat ominous in the darkness.

They passed men now and then, Hispanics looking with sharp curiosity at them but passing without a word, loud rowdy bunches of men in dirty tank tops and baggy pants, passing round a bottle wrapped in brown paper, that ignored all of them but Arwen, though their crass suggestions dissolved beneath Dr. Walker's stony gaze. A couple of brawling drunks, swearing and making ineffective lunges at one another ("Ten bob on the one with the tattoo," Legolas had laughed), men grunting and sweating, moving boxes and barrels with dollies and handcarts and forklifts, who watched them suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

At last they reached a section of the docks that seemed subtly cleaner and brighter. As they walked, ducking under ropes and climbing over gates marked "No Trespassing," the Subversive Elements seemed to fade completely, and Michael began to breathe a little easier. Legolas cut left, climbed over a couple more barriers, and gestured to them to halt. He and Mrs. Walker evaporated into the thick heavy darkness, and they waited again, but for only five minutes this time. Then they came back, and Mrs. Walker was laughing, though Legolas looked irritated.

"He didn't mean it like that," she was saying soothingly to him as they approached. Their voices sounded very loud in the stillness, and Michael wanted instinctively to hush them, though there didn't seem now any reason for stealth.

"Bugger that," grumbled Legolas, touching his bound head tentatively. "I don't get shot THAT many fucking times."

"News to me," said Francis, smiling, and Legolas gave him a sour look. "What did he say, Arwen?"

Arwen, still chuckling, put her arms round her husband's waist and hugged him. "Grim asked what Legolas had done to his head, and Legolas said he'd been shot, and Grim gave that spluttery noise he makes and yelled, 'Dammit, AGAIN?' and read him the riot act. Doris charged him three-fifty for it."

"How much is it per curse, now?" asked Francis, frowning thoughtfully.

"A quarter. I told her if she upped it to a buck, she could retire in a couple years."

"Grim's been taking lessons from the master," said Dr. Walker, inclining his head toward Legolas. At Legolas' black look he continued, "I don't know where our beautiful Sinda got such a foul mouth. Honestly, his mother would have scrubbed his tongue with lye if she'd ever heard him talk like that."

"Oh, fuck off," muttered Legolas, seeming greatly offended.

Mrs. Walker laughed. "He must've picked it up from his father," she said, her eyes twinkling. At that, Legolas' mouth twisted into a reluctant smile.

"Naw," he said. "Me grandmum."

She gave an unfeminine snort. "Figures. No wonder your grandfather was so irritable."

Michael tried to imagine what Legolas' grandparents must have looked like, and gave up in favor of savoring a sudden Pleasant Realization. "Grim and Doris are here?" he asked, his face brightening.

"Yeah," said Legolas. He was unwrapping a lollipop. "Doris bought me lollies. Nice kid, that."

Michael gave a happy sigh. Doris! Four days without someone as scared and confused as he was, almost at an end! Then his stomach rumbled loudly, and clapping his hands over it he looked up at Francis, eyes wide. Francis laughed, and Arwen wriggled out of her husband's embrace to put her arms in turn around Michael, who nestled into her with a satisfied smile. Men were all very well, but sometimes he just needed a girlfriend or two, and Pauline was so far away now …

"They have food and water," said Arwen, pulling him close into her fragrant warmth. "It's not much, though."

"Better than beef jerky and Little Debbies, I bet," said Michael happily, squeezing a squeak out of Arwen and giggling.

Then Francis said with mock-huffiness, "All right, Arwen, quit trying to steal my boyfriend," and Michael, Arwen, and Aragorn all laughed.

"Come on, you feckers, you," said Legolas impatiently. "Quit faffing about. Got to sail with the tide, you know."

"What did he get?" asked Aragorn, falling into step beside Legolas as he strode to the edge of the docks.

"It's not much either, like the food," said Legolas with a grimace. "Fifty foot sloop, about twenty-five or so years old, berths five. Be a tight trip."

"Provisioned?"

"Marginally. Got enough food and water for ten days, if we're careful. But we can always stop at the Keys or somewhere and re-supply if we run out of petrol. Have to be careful of the sails, though – should've been replaced ten years ago. Seen better days, it has."

"That's astonishing," said Francis, from where he walked behind them, his arm round Michael's waist. Legolas and Aragorn looked over their shoulders at him.

"What?" asked Aragorn.

"Legolas," said Francis. Michael recognized the baiting tone in his voice. "He must've said ten sentences without a single swear word. Amazing."

"Oh, bugger off," said Legolas touchily, then stopped himself and said, "No – changed me mind. You will anyway, won't you?" His eye sparkled with mischief now, and his mouth slid up into a sly grin. Aragorn just rolled his eyes.

Francis answered the grin and gave Michael a little squeeze. "Maybe," he said coyly, glancing down at Michael, who flushed hotly, remembering at the last minute what "buggering" meant. "Depends on the distribution. You said it berthed five?"

Legolas laughed out loud. It sounded bold, daring in the misty murky darkness. He must've felt very secure to make such a noise. "Arwen's claimed the single, haven't you, pet?" he said, winking his eye at Arwen and Aragorn, who like Francis and Michael walked with their arms about each other. "Have to take your chances with Grim and Doris – dunno what Doris thinks, but I can bloody well tell you what Grim'll say."

Everyone laughed, but Michael blushed even more deeply, thinking that Doris would certainly NOT approve of such behavior in Public – and anyway, Exhibitionism was never his Thing. And despite his quivering libido, he wasn't sure he could get it on in a boat anyhow – he couldn't even ride the Coronado Ferry without feeling seasick. Then he remembered what Legolas had said about stopping at the Keys to resupply and started feeling sick before even seeing the boat – a great Time Saver, at that.

"How long will we be at sea?" he asked anxiously. He had never told Francis about his predilection to motion sickness. It had never been an issue, and he didn't emphasize his weaknesses to his boyfriend if he could help it – he was already starting with such a deficit. Why incite more eye-rolling than necessary?

Francis may not have picked up on his apprehensive tone, but Legolas certainly did. He dropped back, slid his arm around Michael's waist, twining it about Francis' in the process. The three of them marched together like a coordinated drum corps for a moment, approaching the unsteady light at the end of the dock. Francis glanced sideways at Legolas, a questioning look on his face, but said nothing. He seemed to recognize that Legolas read Michael more deeply than he. At last Legolas turned, his one good eye twinkling.

"Many, many weeks," he said, giving Michael's side a warm squeeze. "You'll get used to it after a while. It's like riding a horse, poppet – the rocking, swaying motion becomes second nature, and after a while, when you make landfall, your legs don't want to walk on solid ground. You'll fuckin' love it, mate – promise."

"Or my money back?" quipped Michael, feeling a little better. After all, one couldn't acquire "sea legs" in the short ferry ride to the Ferry Landing Marketplace. It made sense it was something you had to work yourself into.

Legolas laughed again, throwing his head back. The sound rang across the dock, seeming to chime in the thick cloying air.

"Every penny, mate," he said, grinning at Michael.

Then in the silvery light ahead of them they heard voices, and when Doris ran to them, Michael released both of his beautiful men, preferring on that particular occasion the company of a Very Normal Woman.


	17. Norman Island

  1. **Norman Island**



 

 

They were at sea eleven days. Michael and Doris had wanted to stop at East Caicos, ostensibly for bread and peanut butter, but in reality to get off the swaying, rocking boat, but Legolas was adamant:

"Taken too fuckin' long already, me poppets," he'd said, leaning his long muscled body into the spray, arms stretched, his hands gripping the jibsheet as they keeled over into the green-blue foam. "Norman Island's close enough to spit on, and I'm gaggin' to get the leg over. Haven't seen me acushla in yonks."

So Michael staggered back to the biminy, clutching at various ropes and handles as he went. He was discovering that although his sea sickness had evaporated after his second day at sea, even "sea legs" didn't respond properly to a forty-five degree angle. He felt marginally better to see Aragorn slipping and sliding across the deck as well as he worked the boom.

Doris landed gracelessly in one of the tattered blue chairs beneath the biminy and sighed, pushing her short curly hair back out of her eyes. She looked as tired as Michael felt. Neither of them was sleeping well on the boat. The seas had been rough, with twenty-foot swells – "Workable," Francis had said with satisfaction. "Good high winds, but too choppy for pleasure-jaunts. We'll have the sea to ourselves." And it was true. Though they hugged the island coasts, they saw no one but the occasional freighter or cruise ship, far out on the horizon. Sometimes Michael and Doris would share the binoculars, attempting to read the freighters' ports of call, passing the glasses back and forth, and trying to wipe the sticky salty spray from the lenses.

The further south they sailed, the calmer the waters became. Once they passed the Dominican Republic, the waves died down and the sky cleared. The leaden mottled clouds blew away in a freshening wind, and the very color of the water seemed to change. It was blue-green, brilliant as a jewel. They could see on the horizon the brushy green coast of Hispaniola easing by, oddly like a crown of broccoli sitting juxtaposed upon a glassy turquoise surface. Francis, Aragorn, and Gimli seemed to find this a good sign, but Legolas and Arwen would often sniff at the air suspiciously, or gaze at the horizon anxiously knotting their brows.

Michael overheard them speaking together, as Hispaniola slipped away behind them into the glistening blue. They were standing side by side, looking down into the foaming blue water, their glossy hair lifting and twining together, black with gold, in the stiff breeze.

"Any sign of him?" Arwen asked, leaning over the rail and looking uneasily down into the water.

"Naw, nothin'," Legolas had responded petulantly. He was bare-chested, his pale flawless skin warmed to a soft buttery gold by the sun, and his hair seemed even more brilliant than usual against the broad expanse of his shoulders, tapering down to his slim waist. Michael found himself wondering what Legolas looked like in a Speedo and hoped he'd find out in the not-too-distant-future. "Not a fuckin' word from Manwë, either. Gettin' right crapped, I am."

"Maybe he won't – " she turned, saw Michael standing near them, and forced a smile over her worried expression. "Oh, there you are," she said, her voice bright and brittle, and Michael knew they had been Keeping Secrets.

"It doesn't matter, though," he told himself as he joined them at the rusted, pitted rail and leant over it, looking down into the brilliant water. "There are so many Secrets floating around These People I could probably ask questions 'til the day I die and never get all the answers I wanted. Always assuming, of course," he added to himself with a wry inward smile, "they even answered them." He had the feeling any hints would be subtly ignored, and direct queries bluntly refused.

"Want to learn how to work the jibsheet?" Arwen continued, giving a sharp warning glance at Legolas, who was biting his lip. "You might as well. We'll be at sea for months."

So while they sailed round Puerto Rico, Michael learned the ins and outs of sailing a sloop. Legolas and Gimli found great pleasure in instructing him in the arts of tacking, finding bearings, checking chainplates, wrestling with the halyard, working the helm, pinching the wind, and trimming the mainsail. He was a little apprehensive at first of Arwen's comment that they would be at sea for months. However, the more comfortable he felt on the sloop the less this bothered him. After a while he was even forced to admit to himself that certain aspects of sailing – the views, the starry night sky, the slurp and wobble of the surf against the side of the boat as he lay in his bunk – were rather enjoyable. He could, however, have done with a little less salt about his person, and a little more sex. But sharing the tiny room with Doris and Gimli had put a definite crimp on his and Francis' intimate moments, and they never had the opportunity to do any more than steal a few kisses here and there.

Best still, Michael was beginning to feel as though he might – eventually – become a working member of this weird little group. By taking on the responsibility of the mainsail or the rudder, he no longer felt himself an impediment, a superfluous (and slightly sticky) ornament being dragged along behind this galloping energetic band. It was gratifying to be able to work side by side with the likes of Dr. Walker – or Grim – understanding at last what they were talking about, having both the knowledge and the capacity to urge the decrepit boat along. At times he almost felt as though he were a part of them, that they and he were related somehow, that their lives were irrevocably intertwined and he would know them forever. But then one would glance at him cautiously and speak in a foreign language so he couldn't understand, and he would know he would always be an outsider.

Even Doris took a hand, manning the winch at a moment's notice, and developing an uncanny ability to tune the sails as though she'd micrometered them. She, like Michael, was not truly one of Them – Michael could sense her ordinariness and reveled in it, immeasurably relieved he was not the only Normal person aboard.

They loved to sail together, those two, with only minimal help from the others. Doris was comfortable, Doris liked him, Doris was as confused as he was. It was very comforting. By the time they'd passed Isla de Vieques, Legolas and Aragorn let Michael and Doris sail the boat unassisted to Jost Van Dyke, and with Francis and Gimli's help negotiated the inlet between St. John and Tortolla. They were quite proud of themselves (despite the little confusion about being in irons for about twenty minutes, from which Legolas calmly disentangled them) and by the time they weighed anchor off St. John, the sun was setting to their right, and before them with the binoculars they could just see, with an enormous sense of gratification, Norman Island peeping up over the horizon.

"We'll shoal if we try it in the dark," Faramir had argued when Legolas, with more enthusiasm than caution, announced that he wanted to negotiate the passage immediately. Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen had looked incredulously at him, but it was Francis who spoke up, unwilling to take the risk. "You want to keel us and send us down to the bottom? We can wait one more day. There's no guarantee they're here before us, anyway."

Legolas had taken this with very bad grace, and when Aragorn and Gimli backed Francis up, he'd muttered a string of filthy oaths and stalked to the bow, perching on the pulpit with his knees drawn up to his chest, his bare back to them. Arwen, Aragorn, Gimli, and Francis had just exchanged glances and shrugged. The expressions on their faces seemed to say that Legolas might well have been pissed but he'd get over it soon enough. Doris looked as though she wanted to go after him, but Grim had taken her by the elbow and shaken his head at her. Reluctantly she let him lead her below. Aragorn and Arwen wandered to the stern, where they sat hand in hand watching the sunset, and Francis watched Michael watch Legolas.

Michael knew Francis was watching him, and knew it was Very Impolite to stare at another man when your boyfriend was watching, but for some reason he couldn't help it. There it was again – that compulsion, a tickling, pulling sensation in his belly, that seemed to draw him to Legolas, despite his undoubted affection and sexual attraction for Francis. There was an eerie allure to Legolas, especially now as the light faded, and the pale hair reflected the glow of the running lights. He sat perfectly still, balanced on the pulpit, watching the sea roll and swell beneath them. The sky was turning from pale blue to a sort of unripe tangerine, with oranges and greens and sweeping vermillion clouds. Then as Michael watched, the small speck of a star peeped out, and behind them Arwen began to sing.

It was a lovely song, in some sibilant foreign tongue, that seemed to embody regret and joy altogether. Her voice was clear and pure and unfathomably lovely. Michael watched her as she sat, her white hands uplifted, her face to the heavens, eyes as bright as the stars that were starting to appear. Aragorn sat beside her, watching her, his eyes tender and reverent. Michael looked at Francis. He watched too, solemn, restrained, his gray eyes unreadable. Michael felt another little tug in his innermost parts, and crossed the deck to where Legolas sat.

He was curled up, his torso bound by his limbs, balanced upon the prow like a figurehead. His hair twisted and twined about his head in glimmering tendrils of white, and his face, still covered with striated lines, was immobile. Michael could just see his profile, his perfect, classic profile, against the darkling purple sky. Far from the petulant pout he had been expecting to surprise upon that beautiful face, he seemed quite impassive.

"Are you mad, Legolas?" asked Michael tentatively over the swish and clack of the heaving water against the hull.

Legolas turned his head and looked at Michael, and Michael nearly jumped back in surprise. His eyes were glowing.

"It's the Voice," thought Michael, panicking. "It's Manwë. He's going to Speak." Holding his breath, he waited.

A seagull mewled above them, circling on its white wings, red feet tucked into its sleek belly. The boat rocked beneath them, but Michael, in full possession of his Sea Legs, merely rested his hand on the rough pitted rail and waited. The sky went from green to purple to rich velvety blue, and the stars in all their glory spread across the dome. Arwen's song came to a close, and except for the rush and swish of the water, and the clang and ding of the boat, all was hushed. Legolas' tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and Michael's stomach lurched.

"To bed, Little One," he said in the Voice which was not his own. "Do you want Ossë to get you?"

 _Do you want the boogey man to get you?_ he seemed to be saying. Shaking his head and lowering his eyes Michael turned away.

Francis was still standing there, waiting for him. How long had they stood like that, listening to Arwen sing, Francis watching them? Ten minutes, thirty? Michael made his way back to his lover, drinking in the sight he made: jeans rolled up to his knees, shirt open and exposing his chest. Tanned, bronzed, well-muscled, lightly coated with sweat and salt water and soap. His dark hair was tousled and sticky with salt, his eyes against his darkened skin were pale, silver-gray, rimmed with black. He reached out his hand to Michael and Michael took it, pressed the fingers in his own. With a sideways smile Francis brought Michael's hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. Michael's heart swelled, and he allowed Francis to lead him below, hoping Grim and Doris were sleeping deeply that night.

 

*******************************************

 

But unfortunately for Michael, Gimli seemed to be in a talkative mood that evening, and he and Francis chatted together in their dim stateroom, stretched out on their bunks and propping their bare torsos up on their elbows. Michael and Doris lay on their own bunks above them, watching. Michael could see Gimli most clearly, his thick hairy chest and fuzzy red beard, and quite obviously Doris was watching Francis. Her face was thoughtful, cautiously approving, though there was a flicker of something – not mistrust. That was too strong a word for it – doubt? – behind her eyes.

"You're sure Legolas is all right?" she'd asked early on in the conversation.

            "Oh, don't worry about him," Gimli had said, waving his hand airily. "He's always getting pissed about something. It never really amounts to much. Let it ride."

Michael thought about Legolas' anger in his room in The Lido, when Francis had refused to go on this Mission. There had been nothing trivial about that.

Michael desperately wanted to ask some questions – perhaps Gimli would answer the Not-Discussed, even though Francis would not – but even Doris' tentative forays into the whys and wherefores of their jaunt into the world of international politics went disregarded. After a few attempts she gave Michael a resigned look, rolled over, and went to sleep.

Michael listened to the two men talk below him for a few minutes. He wished Gimli would go to sleep too, so he could climb down from his bunk and join Francis for a quick cuddle – weeks. It had been weeks. He felt more sympathy for Legolas than for anyone else on this boat – but he had found that being out in the sun, out at sea, was more fatiguing than a full day's work. He was exhausted, but had not slept well since – well, since they'd left The Lido – and when he did sleep, it seemed more to be broken and choppy, waking him uneasily to the surging unfamiliar darkness. Letting the murmured conversation wash over him he rested his head on his flat musty pillow and closed his eyes.

The rock and sway of the boat was a cradle that lulled him to sleep. The susurration of the sails and the ring and clack of the shrouds were the lullaby that lured him deeper. Clean water, green, speckled with light, streaked with beams of sunlight, swelled and rolled over him, and the voice called him, called him down. It was compelling, this voice, like the other one. It pleaded, cajoled, purred and enticed. There was a soft melody there too, not like Arwen's. This was deeper, slower, more untamed somehow. It made Michael think of drums, big kettle drums, pounding irregularly somewhere below him.

It grew darker and colder. The voice still drew him, soft, tender, gentle, but beneath it Michael felt uneasy. This was not the Voice to whom Legolas spoke, who sat upon his throne and watched with benign disinterest. This voice was arcane, sonorous, drawing him into the cavernous shadows, beckoning, inducing, coercing, assuring.

"No pain," the voice whispered. "Warm silence, far from the horrors of the dry land. Comforting dark, rich pressure, the soothing drums of the deep. Sleep … sleep … "

Michael sank, eager to escape the sharp light, the irksome noises of the air. No whipping, rushing wind searing his face and throwing him about. No roar of engines, or chatter of voices, or bang of guns. No violent men, no sneering strangers, no push and shove and strain of humanity upon him, against whom he contended for air and light and water, struggling to make ends meet. No constant compulsion to do well, to be perfect, to be happy, to make others happy. Just throbbing silence, and warm shadows, and peace, peace, peace.

The darkness grew. It expanded and surrounded him. He was floating, weightless, careless, apathetic. He turned –

The black figure stood before him, hair like seaweed swirling about his head. His eyes were red like fire, and upon his mouth was a cruel smile. A huge hand reached to him, clawed, reptilian. The gaping mouth opened, showing row upon row of teeth like a shark's.

"Welcome, Little One," he said, and pressure like the weight of the earth expelled every last breath from Michael’s lungs. He struggled but couldn't inhale. There was nothing to breathe. There was no air – "Help me!" he wanted to say, but though his mouth moved nothing came out –

Light behind him. He looked – another figure – Legolas, floating, pasty-white, blank-eyed, dead, emitting some sickly glow. The eddies turned his body, limp limbs drifting, mouth open, hair hanging in pale tendrils in the dark green murk. If Michael could just speak his name, Legolas would wake up and get him out of there, would take him away from this horrible being that had dragged him down. But Michael couldn't speak – he couldn't breathe, couldn't draw in breath – he reached out to Legolas, straining to touch him, but the water pulled them apart. Desperately Michael tried to kick, to swim to Legolas – the pressure on his chest was too great. He had to inhale, but there was nothing to breathe in –

A stray surge flipped Legolas' body, turning his face back to Michael's, inverted, still. Michael's mouth was moving but no words were coming out. The silky hair washed over the face, obscuring it. Michael waved his arms frantically, trying to reach him, stirring up the water around Legolas' face. The hair stirred, lifted, parted –

Legolas winked.

He shot forward, his hands round Michael's shoulders, and kicked upward. The dark figure roared with anger – "Damned Elda!" – Michael could feel his rage, could feel the hands reach out to catch them, could feel fingers grasp his ankle, slowing them in their hasty ascent. The hand tightened, pulling them back. Legolas was kicking, panting, swearing, calling out – "Ada! Ada!" Another light, warm, golden, a strong hand reaching down to them, and a face, strangely familiar, crowned with rich yellow hair. behind him the cries of people spurring them on. The hands met, grasped, locked. Ada pulled, Ossë roared –

Michael jerked upright so fast his head spun. He was sucking in air, sweet wholesome air, filling his lungs so deeply they hurt. He convulsively groped down to his foot, still feeling the steely grip upon his ankle. But there was nothing down there except a sheet, tangled around him. He was damp, sweaty, panting from his virtual exertion. It was dark. Francis and Gimli had talked themselves out. Gimli was snoring, and when Michael looked underneath him he could see Francis sleeping deeply, one arm flung over his face. Trying to still the hurrying trip of his heart Michael scrambled down to the floor and bolted for the stairs.

Legolas was still sitting on the pulpit, his hair and skin bleached white in the darkness. The starlight reflected off his form, a soft white glow echoing the light of the heavens, like a beacon against the thick velvety black of the night. He turned around when Michael pattered up to him, his white arms outstretched, his face sober.

Michael flew to his arms, trembling, frantically seeking comfort there. Warm limbs surrounded him, silky hair caressed his face, and he inhaled the scent of rosemary. He could feel Legolas' hands, stroking his unruly curls, rubbing soothing circles on his back, his soft voice murmuring reassurances into Michael’s ear. After a few moments Michael's breathing slowed, and pressing his face against the warm satiny skin he whispered:

"How am I doing that?"

"Dunno, mate," Legolas whispered back, holding Michael close, so that he could hear the steady heartbeat. "I call you, and you come. Or in this case, you called me, and I came." He paused thoughtfully. "Only other people who've done that've been me wife and Whitey. And Arwen on occasion, the brill little kife."

He loosened his grip and tipped Michael's face up to his own with his fingers. Michael stared up at him, still frightened. He saw the furrowed lines radiating out from Legolas' left eye where his skin was still healing, and remembered seeing the horrible ruin of that lovely face, shifting and bunching as the dead man spoke. "And you heard 'im, the fuckin' bastard – you heard Ossë call you."

"Why does he want me dead?" asked Michael. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, could feel his chest tighten with fear. Legolas brushed the tears away and kissed his forehead. His lips were warm and very soft.

"Who the hell knows why that bloody Vala does what he does?" he said, his expression wry. "Even Melkor couldn't suss him out, and that's fuckin' sayin' somethin', mate." He pulled Michael into his embrace again, and with a resigned sigh Michael settled against his chest, wrapping his arms around the slim strong torso. He felt Legolas rest his chin on the top of his head, and nestled comfortably into his arms. "Ossë does what he bleedin' wants to do, the tosser. Why he's picked you is anyone's guess."

Two questions answered – not satisfactorily, but at least Legolas hadn't just brushed him off. Feeling encouraged, Michael decided for a third. "Who is Ada?" he asked of Legolas' right nipple. He both heard and felt him chuckle, even felt the gust of warm air over his scalp.

"Ah, now that would be tellin', mate," he said. Still holding Michael close, he sank down to the deck, tucking his feet beneath him and drawing the smaller man onto his lap, holding him and rocking him like a baby. Michael curled in, thinking he really ought to feel affronted by Legolas' assumption, but too comfortable to care. Then he heard a soft warm voice singing a lullaby – a real lullaby, one that spoke of air and light and earth – and drifted back into a thick and dreamless slumber.

           

 


	18. A Moment's Respite

  1. **A Moment’s Respite**



 

 

 

The following afternoon, after a smooth and uneventful sail, they dropped anchor northwest of Norman Island and lowered the dinghy. Michael did not like the dinghy one bit. It was very small, and very rusty, and very dented, and there was a hole in the bottom. It had the undeniable appearance of an Unsafe Mode of Transportation.

"Here," Legolas had said shortly when they'd climbed in, handing him a plastic Cool Whip container. By then, Michael knew what that meant: Bail.

So he bailed while Legolas manned the outboard and Arwen and Doris sat at the bow. He tried to convince himself he was bailing Manfully, but was forced to admit privately that there was really nothing very Manly about bailing, especially when halfway there Doris knelt in the slop at the bottom of the dinghy, took the plastic tub from him, and said, "Here, let me do this for a while." He had protested, wanting to be Gentlemanly even if he couldn't be Manly, but Arwen had hoisted him over to the seat beside her and said, "Let her. We're all taking turns."

"Except Legolas," said Michael, and from the stern Legolas flashed him a white grin.

"Gotta steer the fuckin' boat, mate," he'd said innocently, and Doris, from her post in the bottom of the boat, stuck out her tongue at him.

Michael had not told Francis about his dreams. He'd asked Legolas, when they'd awoken entwined together, curled up at the prow of the boat, what he should do, and Legolas had advised him to keep his mouth shut.

"No sense worryin' him when it won't do a bit of bloody good," he'd said pensively, looking across the glassy golden surface of the early morning ocean. "Best keep this to ourselves." He fell into a deep reverie, and was silent and still so long Michael thought perhaps he'd forgotten all about him, but after a couple of minutes he murmured, almost to himself: "Not sure where he stands, my lord. Will it turn him or drive him away?" But as the Voice did not answer him in Michael's hearing, he didn't know what the answer could be.

By the time Arwen had gotten down into the bilge water to bail, Michael could see the shoreline clearly. It rose like a tawny mound out of the turquoise mirror of the water, palm trees rustling and shifting in the breeze, the waves glaring white beneath the climbing sun. The shadows under the palms and chikki huts were blue-gray and sharp, and there was only one man, dark with white clothing, moving about in the sandy shade amongst scattered boxes and barrels.

Michael squinted and tried to shade his eyes with his hand, wishing, not for the first time in two weeks, that he'd had the foresight to bring his Ray-Bans with him to The Lido. "But then I probably would've forgotten them when we left," he thought resignedly, "and they'd be all blown up. At least they're still safe on my dresser."

Legolas said something to Arwen in the soft sibilant language they all seemed to speak – all of them barring Michael and Doris, anyway; that was getting Very Annoying – and she got up and squeezed into the seat between the other two. Legolas cut the engine as they coasted up through the softly lapping waves to the beach, then jumped out into the waist-deep water, took the boat by the prow, and pulled it up onto the sand.

Michael watched him, his creamy skin water-dappled, the strong muscles bunching and stretching, the obscure tattoo, the long white-blond hair streaming down, flaxen, silky. He remembered how that skin and that hair had felt when he'd awoken that morning, the piney scent, the smooth unblemished feel of him, the tickle of that soft hair on his cheek. Was it wrong to desire another man when you were in a Committed Relationship? He certainly hoped not.

When they ran aground, Arwen, Doris, and Michael jumped into the water. It was deliciously warm, and beneath his bare feet Michael could feel the soft giving sand, rippled by the movement of the tides. Shuffling his toes into the gritty stuff he came across a spiny disc. He bent over, wetting his dirty shirt, and groped in the sand until he found it with his fingers. It was a sea biscuit, its flagella wriggling and pulsing. He and Doris poked at it a minute, then he flung it back into the water, but deeper, so Aragorn, Gimli, and Faramir wouldn't accidentally crush it when they arrived.

Legolas dragged the boat up the beach to a crooked, water-warped pole, to which he lashed the forward line. Arwen was already striding up the sand, her black trousers rolled up to her knees and her shirt pulled up and tied round beneath her breasts. Michael could see the smooth soft curves of her, tapering and swelling from her ribcage past her waist. Doris, trotting along behind, looked very dumpy and ordinary by comparison.

Michael touched his face tentatively. There had been razors – of a sort – on board, and he'd managed to shave a few times, but he still felt very rough and unkempt, and wondered why Francis didn't mind. After all, Francis looked fine when he was unshorn and tousled and rumpled. He and Aragorn carried off the Scruffy Look rather well, making it seem almost sexy. But Michael was very fastidious, and projected that preference onto his lover. He couldn't imagine what Francis could possibly see in him at that moment – still with the echoes of bruises about his eyes, three-day stubble, wrinkled and torn clothing, sticky and stiff with salt and dish soap, emitting an odor that, while being far from unpleasant, did not resemble Obsession or Drakkar Noir in the slightest. But hadn't Francis just that morning, as Michael had leant upon the rail watching the vermilion sun burgeon from her foamy cloud-trappings, come up behind him, wind his arms round Michael's waist, and run an experimental tongue across the tops of his shoulders? Michael had jumped and squeaked in surprise, and Francis had chuckled, pressing the smaller man up to him. "Salty," he'd said, his voice deep and suggestive. Michael could feel his arousal against the small of his back. But then, dammit, Aragorn had come topside as well, and Francis had had to let him go.

Arwen turned and looked back at Legolas, her eyes questioning. He said simply, "Need me cozzie, pet," and she'd nodded and continued through the scrub and palm trees to a chikki hut set in a clearing. There was a larger building next to it, its boards worn gray and pitted by the climate, warped and disreputable-looking. Michael thought longingly of The Lido – hell, his own pristine apartment – and wondered if he were going to be living in seedy digs for the rest of his life.

When they stepped into the clearing, Michael saw what he'd assumed to be more crates and boxes was actually a rusted, tattered lounge chair stretched beneath a faded golf umbrella, and lying on the chair, tweed hat pushed over his eyes, hands folded on his linen-clad chest, white knobby-kneed legs crossed and surmounted by battered sandals, was Professor White.

He had no idea why this surprised him. The more pertinent question was why he hadn't thought of the man in these past three weeks. Hadn't he started everything? Hadn't it been at his instigation Legolas had climbed into their apartment window and triggered this lunatic affair? Had not this urbane, cultured, slightly untidy old man been the first person Michael had ever seen make Francis uncomfortable? He stood with Legolas, Arwen, and Doris beside the chair while Professor White lay unmoving. Doris glanced over at Michael, her eyes confused. Grateful he at least knew one more thing than Doris did, Michael smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Oi, Whitey," said Legolas irritably, kicking the leg of the lounge chair. Professor White snorted and shifted, raising one knotted hand to rub his nose. "Wakey-wakey. Beauty sleep doesn't work on you, anyway."

It was incredible, thought Michael. Did Legolas insult EVERYONE? He tried to imagine what that person might be like whom Legolas held in reverence, but his mind boggled at the attempt.

Professor White lifted the brim of his hat, squinted up at them groggily, and with a grunt dropped the hat onto the sand and sat up a little, rubbing his eyes.

"Oh, there you are," he said calmly, running his fingers through his brushy white hair. He peered at them all in turn, starting with Doris. "Ah," he said, smiling. "You're Gimli's little friend, aren't you? Doris Goldberg?"

"Yes," said Doris a little nervously, shifting on her feet.

"You'll pardon me for not getting up," said Professor White, looking around a little blearily. "Those painkillers are really strong."

Had he hurt himself? thought Michael, wondering what he was taking. Then Professor White looked at Arwen. "You look quite well," he said politely. "But then, you always do."

"Thank you, Mithrandir," she said, inclining her head, looking despite her shabby trappings every inch a queen.

Professor White turned to Michael. "Ah-ha," he said, his smile widening. "There you are. And how are you, Michael?"

The surreal politesse was starting to grate on Michael's nerves. Didn't Professor White CARE what had been going on, or had he just been spending the last three weeks soaking up the sun in the Caribbean? "I've been kidnapped, separated from my family, lost my job, bombs have been going off, people have tried to rape me and shoot me, and I've just spent two weeks on a sailboat with a bunch of people who won't tell me what's going on," he said, a little acerbically.

"Oh," said Professor White, unsurprised. "That's about right, then." He looked over at Legolas. "Good heavens, Legolas, what happened to your face?"

"Got shot," said Legolas.

"Dear, dear. Again?"

Michael bit his lip, and Doris stifled a giggle. Legolas glanced at them, gave Professor White a dirty look, and said, "Goin' to get me cozzie and go back to fetch the others. Take care of Michael, will yer?" There was a warning undertone to this last phrase, which made Professor White sit up a little straighter. Suddenly he didn't appear as muzzy as he had before. He gave a curt nod, and Legolas stalked back into the old building, calling out, "Nick!"

"Come on, Doris," said Arwen, turning. "Let's get out of these awful clothes, and try to look the part. Nicky's got everything ready for us."

"Including a proper shower?" asked Doris, touching her rumpled hair. Arwen laughed.

"Why bother?" she asked, leading Doris back around the other side of the chikki hut. "We're just going snorkeling this afternoon. There's a great reef on the far side of the island."

"Snorkeling?" Doris brightened, and taking Arwen's hand they disappeared, leaving Michael alone with Professor White. They studied each other a moment, Michael a little resentfully, Professor White with an expression of thoughtful caution.

"So," said Professor White. "You look as though you could use a painkiller yourself."

"I'm fine," said Michael shortly. He did not believe in Self-Medicating. Professor White chuckled.

"Not a pill, dear boy," he said, smiling. "A _painkiller_. Here." He reached to the crate sitting next to him, upon which sat a plastic jug and an ice chest, and several mismatched tumblers and bottles. He poured a runny whitish liquid into a green tumbler, which gave it a sickly appearance, dropped a couple ice cubes into it, and sprinkled something brown over the top. "Here you are," he said, holding it out to Michael. "Welcome to the British Virgin Islands." When Michael hesitated he said, "Made with Pusser's rum, my boy. Category four. Nick's a superlative bartender."

Michael took the tumbler tentatively. It was damp, and there was sand sticking to the sides, which felt gritty beneath his fingers. He sniffed. He smelled coconut, rum, and pineapple. It was a pleasant, beachy smell. He looked at the dirty brown scum on top and sniffed again. "Nutmeg," he thought, and took a sip.

It both burned and soothed his throat, and felt very warm going down his esophagus into his stomach. He gave a little cough, and took another drink. Professor White laughed.

"That's right," he said, lying back onto his lounge chair and picking up his own glass. The ice cubes tinkled against the edges. "Have a seat, Michael. Legolas has just gone to get you some proper clothes and other accoutrements, then he'll go get your beloved Faramir and you two can drink, bathe, dive, snorkel, do whatever you like until the others arrive – most likely two or three days." He took a deep draught, closing his eyes. "Ah," he said, satisfaction edging his voice. "How I love alcohol."

By the time Legolas returned, clad in colorful swim trunks and holding a small bag, Michael had finished his Painkiller and accepted a second from Professor White, who asked him to call him Gandalf. He felt a lot better. His stomach had calmed down, his legs were on dry land, he was sitting in the shade on a breezy beach overlooking a clear calm ocean, the seagulls were mewling and strutting around them looking for handouts, and his head was, he was forced to admit, a lot lighter than it had been before his first Painkiller. He was agreeing with Gandalf that the grated nutmeg added the right bitter counterbalance to the sweetness of the coconut, sitting on a battered beach chair with his toes buried in the cool sand, when Legolas dropped the bundle beside him.

"Here you are then, Mike," he said, grinning down at him. "Cozzie and sunnies. And some sun block – yer lookin' a little pink round the cheeks. Don't want to get burned, mate."

Michael opened the bundle. Inside were a pair of blue swim trunks patterned with yellow and white hibiscus, a bottle of sun block, and a pair of dark glasses. "Can I go snorkeling this afternoon with Arwen and Doris?" he asked, wondering where the equipment was.

"Sure thing, if you lay off the rum," laughed Legolas. "Won't take responsibility for stickin' a tube in yer gob and swimming underwater if you're fuckin' sozzled."

Michael thought about that. He had a nice buzz going, and felt comfortable and relaxed. "Maybe I'll go tomorrow," he said indolently, struggling to his feet. "Where do I change?"

"Round back of the hut," said Legolas, gesturing. "Gonna go get the others. Save me a little, will yer?"

"And tell Nick to open another can of pineapple juice," said Gandalf. He tipped his hat back over his hooked nose, folded his hands on his breast, and sighed contentedly.

Michael walked around the hut to the back. There was a door, hanging a bit on its hinge. The faded legend above it said "Gents." He pushed it open. There was a shower and one of those Environmentally Correct toilets, about which lingered the odor of disinfectant. He stripped out of his crusty crackling clothes and pulled on the trunks. He wasn't sure what to do with his dirty laundry, so he stuffed it back in the bag and took it out with him.

There was a middle-aged, dark-skinned man standing there, grinning. Half his teeth were gone, his curly bristly hair was peppered with gray, and his clothes were tattered and shabby. He did, however, look a lot happier than many better-dressed people Michael had met in San Diego. Perhaps Island Life had its compensations for poverty.

"Are you Nick?" asked Michael, smiling. He didn't feel as shy as he would have felt before drinking the Painkillers.

The man didn't respond verbally, but only nodded enthusiastically and took the bag from Michael. Then without a word he turned and shuffled away.

"Odd," thought Michael, but then, what else was new? Odd was the new Normal. He went back to Gandalf, noting with pleasure Nick had refilled their pitcher and brought out more ice, and sat back down in his lawn chair, picked up his glass, and stretched his legs out. It was a lot easier, he thought, enjoying a tropical island paradise when you had the right accoutrements. Swim trunks and sun glasses were a lot more conducive to a tropical frame of mind than old jeans and a dirty polo shirt.

About an hour later, Legolas returned with the others in tow. Arwen and Doris were still truant, and when Aragorn approached and asked politely where his wife was, Gandalf was snoring, and Michael felt so relaxed he couldn't even be bothered to stand. "Changing," he said lazily, taking another sip of his drink. Francis laughed and sat beside him on the sand, laying one long brown hand on his thigh.

"Arwen does NOT take an hour to change clothes," said Aragorn mock-sternly, accepting a glass from Legolas, who was distributing the Painkillers with an alacrity normally reserved for bartenders.

"Yeah," said Legolas. "That's me sister-in-law's job."

Francis groaned. "Lord, yes," he agreed, giving Michael's thigh a little squeeze before taking his Painkiller. "Lottie's got clothes on the brain."

"And very little else," said Gandalf into his hat. Legolas swatted him playfully across the top of his head, from where he stood behind the chaise.

"Be nice to the little kife," he remonstrated. "Been bloody good to me acushla." Having served everyone else, he poured himself a generous tumblerful and took a deep draught. "Not runnin' on all four, mates, but a damn nice woman."

"Never said she wasn't," said Gandalf, straightening his hat from where Legolas had knocked it aside. "All I was implying was that her acumen was a little lacking outside the realm of fashion."

"Éomer doesn't mind," said Legolas, sitting cross-legged beside Gandalf, who patted him gently on the head.

"He oughtn't to," said Gandalf, smiling. "She puts up with him when most women would tell him to take himself right off … that in itself makes her most unusual."

"Oh, I don't know," said Aragorn, leaning against a palm tree and looking out over the water. "We all have our little quirks. Finding someone to put up with us in those particular areas is kind of a bonus, I think."

Michael looked at Gimli, who was already starting on his second drink. "You're really lucky, Grim," he said, a little surprised at how soft and unsteady his voice was. "Doris really, really loves you, and doesn't care what you do. That's a really big bonus."

Gimli looked surprised but pleased, and grinned at Michael through his matted beard. Francis gave Michael's leg another squeeze and said softly: "Gimli and I are both really lucky."

Michael felt his insides turn over, and a sort of dreamy pink bliss washed over him like a warm wave. It was astonishing, he thought as Francis nestled closer to him, that he in his search for Perfection had never found this … it was even more astonishing that he should be so happy when his life was in such turmoil. But then Francis lay his head on Michael's chest, listening quietly to the hum of conversation around them, and Michael reflected that perhaps turmoil wasn't so bad after all, and Perfection definitely over-rated.


	19. Glasses Unfogging

  1. **Glasses Unfogging**



 

 

 

The following morning a boat arrived, but it wasn't the one they were apparently waiting so eagerly for. It was a family of four and a captain, out of Key Largo, looking for some good snorkeling. Despite Legolas' obvious disappointment, everyone welcomed them, plying the adults with Painkillers, showing the two young children around, and ultimately sharing a fresh lobster dinner, provided by the ubiquitous and uncommunicative Nick.

The following morning, Arwen, Doris, the mother and the daughter sailed to Road Town on Tortolla to go shopping, and came back with brilliant pareos, umbrellas, bottles of Pusser's Rum, larimar jewelry and, for Michael, who had wanted to go but felt uncomfortable about being seen as One Of The Girls, a consolation gift of a macraméd jute choker set with tiny speckled bonnet shells. Michael and Francis had spent most of that time snorkeling with Aragorn and Gimli, as the father and captain had been treating them with undisguised hostility, and Legolas, after a flickering wink in Michael's direction, had led the two homophobes off to drink themselves senseless in Gandalf's company. Much to Michael's relief, the family left at dawn the next day, and he and Doris stood on the beach together, watching the sail disappear over the horizon. Michael was satisfied, but Doris was very angry.

"I can't believe how _rude_ they were," she fumed, glaring at the inoffensive boat as it vanished from sight. "To accept our hospitality and drink our Painkillers and then treat you and Francis like _that_ – "

"It's not our island, you know," Michael pointed out equably. He preferred people to be Happy and Content. Life seemed to flow more smoothly that way. "It belongs to the British government, so technically we're trespassing anyway."

"I know, I know," Doris grumbled, sitting abruptly and digging her bare toes in the sand. She had painted her toenails bright pink and bought a silver toe ring, which glinted in the early sun, and wore her pink and blue pareo over a brightly patterned maillot. Her short curly hair was frizzy with neglect and stood out over her round head like a strange mousy brown halo. But she had tanned a gorgeous golden brown, even and flawless over every exposed inch of her, whereas poor Michael the Fair-Skinned slathered himself with SPF 50 and still turned shrimp-pink. "Compensations," he said to himself, smiling, and sat down next to her.

"Don't be so upset," he said consolingly, draping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a little squeeze. "I'm used to it. I always get treated like that."

"It's not fair." Doris picked up a stick and started jabbing the sand viciously.

"Well, no. But it's the way things are."

"It sucks." Jab jab jab.

"I'm not arguing with you. I'm just telling you I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be." She jabbed so hard the stick broke.

Michael sighed. "It'd be nice if the world was perfect, but it's not," he said, looking over the turquoise mirror of the early-morning tide and watching for dolphin fins. If he spotted one, he could tell Doris and that would distract her and make her happy. Then she would stop thinking about how unfair homophobes were and how Michael and Francis ought to be treated like everyone else, and they could change the subject to a more agreeable topic.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he said suddenly. "I think perfection is over-rated."

Doris looked at him, eyebrows puckered. " _You_ think perfection is over-rated?" she asked in surprise.

Now it was Michael's turn to pucker his eyebrows. "Am I THAT bad?" he asked, hurt.

"Well," said Doris slowly, running her fingers through the sand and staring out over the ocean, "you're a lot more … particular … about your personal appearance than – " She paused, glanced at him, and blushed.

"Than a normal man, you mean?" asked Michael, trying not to feel offended, and to sound as though the conversation didn't bother him. Doris turned to him, still pink, but laughed.

"No!" she said, grinning and nudging him with her round shoulder. "I was going to say, than me."

"Oh!" That made Michael feel better. he had been expecting Doris to say something much worse. "Well, um … " His natural inclination for candor wanted to say, "That's not very difficult," but he wasn't sure how Doris would take it, and definitely didn't want to hurt her feelings, so he decided to go in a different direction. "Most gay men are VERY particular about the way they look, you know. I know I'm a little more picky than most, but – "

"But you've actually raised it to an art form," laughed Doris. At his surprised look she laid her hand on his arm and said, "Honestly, the first time I met you, I was so intimidated. You looked so perfect, so classy and well-dressed and – and – oh, I don't know," she said with a chuckle, running her sandy fingers through her hair. "I felt so tubby and boring and ordinary next to you. I always wanted to be tall and thin and have blonde hair," she said, smiling wistfully at him. "And here I am, egg-shaped and mousy. What could be worse?"

"Well," said Michael carefully, preening despite himself, "you could be a back-stabbing manipulative selfish bitch. That'd be bad."

"Hm," said Doris, smiling thoughtfully and looking back out over the ocean. "You just described my last boss."

"Really?" Michael giggled. "I worked for someone like that too in college. It was a guy, though." He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out, wriggling his toes into the sand. "Seriously, honey, don't worry so much about being tall and blonde. Gimli is obviously so hopelessly in love with you he only sees an angel descended to earth anyway, so what does it matter? And you don't have to be Linda Evangelista to be attractive – I've heard she's awfully bitchy anyway – it sounds so cliché," he said, a little irritably, "and I don't know how to put it poetically, but if you're pretty INSIDE then people who know you don't care what you look like OUTSIDE."

"But people who don't know me just think of me as some dumpy, mousy person," argued Doris, though she looked flattered.

"And people who don't know ME just think of me as some pretty-boy faggot," said Michael wistfully. "So there you go." They were silent a moment, and then Michael said, "Besides, I always thought dark-haired women were prettier than blondes."

"Like Arwen," said Doris absently.

"Oh, yes!" Michael gushed, his aesthetic sense galvanized. "I think her looks are just MARVELOUS. That marble skin and that glossy black hair, and she just holds herself like a QUEEN. What a model she would've made." He paused thoughtfully, then added, "But maybe not QUITE tall enough."

Doris snorted. "Wait'll you meet Éowyn," she said. "You want tall? But she's blonde." She shook her head, a wry look on her face. "I was so jealous of her when I first started working with her," she admitted. "Tall, thin, blonde, and beautiful. I wanted to hate her – but I couldn't."

"Oh!" said Michael hopefully. "Is she Nice?" He desperately wanted Legolas' wife to be Nice, so that they could like each other – that would make it SO much easier for him to continue to ogle her husband, so long as she wasn't the Jealous Type.

Doris chuckled. " 'Nice'?" she said, turning to Michael with a sardonic smile. "Not a word I normally associate with her – "

"Not Bitchy, though?" asked Michael anxiously. "I couldn't BEAR it if Legolas was married to a bitchy woman, that would be just AWFUL."

Doris considered this, her head cocked on one side. "Well … not bitchy, really," she conceded. "She's kind of … um … aggressive, though, and, um … earthy."

"Earthy?" Michael thought about that. "She'd kind of have to be, wouldn't she? I mean, with Legolas being the way he is. I can't imagine anyone as classy as Arwen putting up with him."

That made Doris laugh aloud. "You have no idea," she said. "They love each other like brother and sister, but honestly, you should hear them bicker when nothing important's going on. They're on their best behavior because they're so worried about all this."

The sudden shift in topic made them both fall silent a moment, considering their situation thoughtfully. After a couple of minutes Michael said, in a small voice, "Doris, do YOU know what's going on?"

Doris gave him a furtive look, then shook her head and looked back out over the ocean. "Nope," she said in a small voice.

"Do they do this all the time? Are they some sort of commando team doing the Mission Impossible stuff?"

Doris shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "This is the first time I've ever seen them do it, and I've known them all five years now. Well," she said, "I've known Éowyn seven years, but two of those we were working auto insurance, which is about as far from commando team you can get. That was before Legolas came along, of course."

That made Michael feel better, that he wasn't the only one In The Dark. "So you've known Gimli for five years and you never knew he could do all this stuff?" he asked. "And you've known Arwen and Aragorn and Legolas – "

"Yes, and Francis too," said Doris, "but not Gandalf – this is the first time I've met him. And I've never met Merry or Estella or Pippin or Diamond, they live in Europe."

"I haven't even heard of them yet," said Michael in surprise. "There's more of them, then?"

"Yes – Éomer and Lottie live in Colorado, Sam and Rosie live with Éowyn and Legolas, and Frodo shows up from time to time.  They're a pretty exclusive bunch, and there are no children – isn't that odd?" asked Doris slowly. "All these young healthy couples, and no kids. Doesn't that seem funny to you?"

"Do YOU want kids?" asked Michael.

"No, not really," admitted Doris. "I'm thirty-nine and kind of past it, unless I want to go the fertility-treatment route, and anyway Grim doesn't like kids all that much – calls them rug-rats. But I've been expecting Éowyn to get pregnant these past five years – ever since she and Legolas got married – but nothing – and when I try to ask about it, it's as though I've said something really dirty."

She frowned. "It's like that, you know – you go along, everything's fine, you think everyone's normal – then you ask something, or something happens, and it's like you're an outsider all of a sudden, and they know something you don't, and they won't tell you and don't want you to ask." She paused. "Or do I sound paranoid?" she said anxiously. "They all treat me really well, Grim and Éowyn especially. I don't want to sound ungrateful or bitchy. But it's like that sometimes. You expect them to say one thing and they say something so bizarre you don't even know where it came from. It's like they're from another planet or something."

"Well, Legolas and Arwen are, at any rate," said Michael.

"Do you think so?" asked Doris slowly. "I don't know. I don't think they're aliens necessarily. And really, they're not the oddest of the bunch, and I think aliens would seem more – outlandish – than they do. I'm around Legolas a lot," she said seriously. "Grim and I live with him and Éowyn about six months out of the year. And he's very, very human in a lot of ways. I don't think he could be from outer space – he's too vulgar."

"Do you ever ask Grim about it?" asked Michael carefully. Doris gave a rather bitter laugh.

"Oh, yes," she said, smiling dourly at the sand. "And he tells me not to worry my pretty head about it, and I get mad at him and demand some answers, and he starts getting all teary-eyed and tells me I'm welcome to leave and break his heart, and then I feel all sorry for him and stay … and in the end," she sighed, "my questions go unanswered." She shook her head. "I don't know what the truth is," she said, "but if it's so unpalatable, maybe I don't want to know. Like defecating – there are some things that shouldn't be shared between couples." She paused, then asked, "You ever ask Francis?"

"Goodness, no!" laughed Michael. "I call that sort of thing a Not-Discussed. If he gets all Abrupt and Snippy and Uncommunicative, then I know I've said a Not-Discussed, and I shut up."

"You never press him?" asked Doris in surprise.

"I don’t dare," said Michael. "I mean, what if I make him mad and he leaves me? What would I do then? I'd be just DEVASTATED – my life would be OVER." Then he remembered that Ossë, for reasons unknown, wanted his life to be over, and he shivered, feeling a little cold. Doris misunderstood his response, and put a protective arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, giving him a little squeeze. "I didn't know he could be like that."

"He's not so much, anymore," Michael defended him peevishly, sorry he'd said anything. "He's ever so much more gentle with me now – really, I don't know WHY, because he's SUCH the perfectionist and likes things to be Just So, and everything's so topsy-turvy … you'd think he'd be all irritable and snippy, but he's not … he seems … almost happy," he said. "So really – to go back to the beginning of the conversation, like a circle, you know – that's why I said I thought perfection was over-rated, because I always tried to be perfect, and make the condo perfect, and make Francis' life perfect, because I thought HE was perfect, and I figured if everything was perfect then we would be happy – but as it turns out, everything is turned upside down and we're happier now than we ever were, but I don't know what's going to happen or where we're going to live or even what to do, and I'm so confused and I wish I knew what was going on!"

His voice had risen during this diatribe, so that they didn't hear the footsteps approach, and when Gimli shuffled to a stop behind them and they smelled his pipe smoke they both turned, guiltily startled.

He grinned down at them, teeth clenching the pipe, clad in ratty cut-offs and a loud Hawaiian shirt. He held three sweating mugs in his hands.

"Painkillers?" he said, kneeling, and Michael and Doris each took one, glancing a little nervously at each other. Had he heard? Would he be angry? They sipped their sweet, pungent drinks carefully as Grim settled down beside Doris, grunting a little as he sat in the sand, nestled his cup in a little dip in the dune so it wouldn't tip over, and removed his pipe, knocking the ashes out and folding his big, meaty arms over his fur-clad chest complacently. After a few awkward minutes, during which Michael and Doris suffered the throes of agonized anticipation, Gimli said:

"You wanna know what's going on? Well, I'll tell you a little."

Michael stirred hopefully. Were they finally going to get some answers? Gimli took a long, deep draught of his drink, smacked his lips appreciatively, crossed his ankles, and spoke.

"We're pursuing a man named Dr. Ahn Yong, a South Korean geneticist who's developed a deadly virus with the intent of releasing it in North Korea and killing the bulk of the population, so that two interested senators can convince the UN Ambassador to talk the UN forces into intervening and bringing North Korea under US control, provided they get first dibs on the sale of Korean property and the trade agreements. Faramir and I destroyed all the available documentation and data concerning the construction and parameters of the virus, Legolas hosed the computers – and most of the paramilitary group running the servers supporting it – and now we're waiting for the rest of us to show up to give their report on how the senators have been dealt with. After that, we'll sail to New England, find Ahn Yong, take care of HIM, make sure he hasn't left any incriminating evidence behind, and then try to disappear for a little while, until the hoopla dies down."

He took another drink in the deafening silence. "About a year, probably," he said, staring out over the ocean with a thoughtful look on his face. "I'd like to sail past the Horn … see Madagascar again … maybe do a tour of Oceania." He looked at Doris, his brown eyes tender, and laid his square, heavy hand on her knee. "Would you like to see the South Pacific?" he asked, smiling. "It's beautiful down there – and we could go to Australia and New Zealand. Would you like that, dear?"

"I don't know," said Doris, her face white, voice trembling a little. "That depends on how you answer my next couple of questions."

Gimli's eyes became a little unfocused, though his mouth continued to smile, as though it had forgotten to stop looking happy. "Well," he said, "you can give me a shot and see what I say."

Doris swallowed. At that moment Michael admired her very much. He saw how much courage it was taking her, and how much she was risking. "Are Legolas and Arwen human?"

Gimli raised his eyebrows. "Nope," he said, paused, and added, "and … um … strictly speaking, now … neither am I."

Doris went pale, and Michael stifled a terrified squeak, expecting Gimli to start sprouting antennas and flippers at any moment. She appeared to struggle with this, her indecision at odds with the uneasy apprehension on Gimli's face. Michael suddenly felt very sorry for Gimli. Gimli loved Doris – Michael knew that, even more surely than he knew he loved Francis – and to confess something like that to her, after denying her information for five years, was putting his relationship with her on the line for the sake of Truth. This was a Big Step for Gimli, he could tell – and then, just as suddenly, he realized he was really Out of Place and wished he could jump up and leave so they could have their Moment, good or bad – but for some reason his legs were glued to the sand, and he couldn't move an inch.

"Okay," said Doris slowly. Michael looked at her knee, where Gimli's hand was still resting, frozen, a little tremulous. To his relief and gratification, Doris placed her hand tentatively over his, and Gimli let out a deep breath, the little curly tendrils of his whiskers blowing out around his lips. "So … what are you?"

Gimli's eyes became shuttered and a little wary. "Does it matter that much to you?" he asked, his harsh voice husky. "I wasn't born of human parents, but I was born here, on Earth. I'm not – like you – but I'm _enough_ like you, aren't I?"

Doris looked doubtful, and unable to help himself, Michael blurted: "It doesn't matter, does it, Doris? I mean, Aragorn and Arwen are mismatched too, and they seem to get along fine."

Doris and Gimli looked at him in surprise, and Michael gulped. "Sorry," he said. "I'll leave now." He made to rise, but Gimli stopped him.

"No," he said. "Legolas said you'd need to hear it too."

Michael made an impatient noise. "And you always do what he tells you to, I suppose," he said irritably. Gimli chuckled.

"Not frequently," he said. "Legolas said I should have this little talk with Doris four years ago, but I didn't because … " he paused, fixed Doris with an intense look "… I was afraid you'd leave me."

Doris tightened her grip on Gimli's hand. "I won't leave you," she whispered earnestly, her voice controlled but urgent. "Why won't you get that through your stupid thick head? I'm not leaving. I don't care what you are or where you were born or what you do for a living. I won't leave you, I can't. Where would I go? Back to my old life? I'd die first."

Michael felt his throat tighten, and his eyes blurred with tears. Oh, that was so ROMANTIC …

"Holy shit," muttered Gimli in shock, effectively breaking the Romantic Atmosphere. Michael braced himself for Doris' angry remonstrations, but all she did was lean forward, kiss Gimli on the tip of his pug nose, and say shakily, "That'll be a quarter."

That was Even Better – Michael let the tears run unashamedly down his cheeks, wondering if he'd be as brave as Doris were their positions reversed. That, of course, made him wonder if Francis were as Human as he seemed … that was an awkward thought, and the subsequent worried feeling effectively quashed his Romantic Notions, so that when Gimli cleared his throat and spoke again, Michael was well able to concentrate without any undue quixotic ideas getting in the way.

"Well," said Gimli, his voice very rough, "I'm called a Naugrim – and in case you're wondering, I'm the last of my species, so don't go asking about my family."

"Oh … " Doris' response was wistful, apologetic, sympathetic, and Gimli looked away. Michael felt sorrier for him than before. The last of his kind … no family … he tried to imagine what his life would be like if his family were to all die off, tried not to think too enthusiastically how much easier Christmas would be if his Aunt Edna fell off a cliff (no more "Why don't you just try girls and see? You can't _enjoy_ being a freak" uttered every holiday dinner), and then realized why Gimli didn't want kids – who'd want some half-human, half – what had he called himself? Damn, he'd forgotten already – well, that would be even worse than Growing Up Gay, to be only half-human. And it explained the no-kids aspect of Aragorn and Arwen's marriage as well.

By the time he'd completed this rather roundabout series of thoughts, Gimli and Doris had had their Tender Moment, gazing into each other’s' eyes with looks of Heartfelt Adoration, which had the combined effect of 1) Making Michael Happy and 2) Making Michael Uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, wondering if the Question-Asking were over and if Gimli and Doris would like some Time Alone (a precious enough commodity nowadays), but Gimli shook himself out of his fuzzy reverie, glanced at Michael, and smiled.

"All right," he said, softly. "Next question."

Doris stared at him. Somehow his response had annulled her need for answers. She appeared to have everything she needed. After a moment she whispered, "Oceania?"

"Not in that tub, I hope," said Michael, gesturing to their disreputable boat anchored off shore.

Gimli looked over at him, his damp eyes twinkling. "Nope," he said with a shaky grin. "Gonna let Arwen blow that up, too. But first we go to Kennebunkport and pick up Aragorn's ship, the _Evening Star_."

"We have to sail to Kennebunkport in THAT?" asked Michael in dismay, looking at their boat. He and Francis had christened it _The Semi-Impermeable_ , and complained cheerfully about its inconveniences.

"No, of course not," said Gimli with a laugh, taking both Doris' hands in his own. "Éowyn, Éomer, and Lottie are on their way in Legolas' boat, the _White Lady_. It's bigger and much nicer than that old piece of shit – I mean, junk, dammit – I mean, darn it!" He gave the gently smiling Doris a wry look. "I know – fifty cents." They gazed into each other’s eyes with looks of obdurate adoration for a moment, causing Michael to feel even more perturbed than he had before. Then Gimli said softly: "Now, I'm going to ask you a question, Doris."

"All right," whispered Doris, watching him with intense and focused devotion.

"Marry me?"

"Okay, I'm going now," said Michael firmly, struggling to his feet. He wasn't quite fast enough to miss Doris' adamant reply – "Yes!" – before escaping to the relative sanity of Gandalf's chaise lounge.


	20. The White Lady

  1. **The White Lady**



 

 

Francis' response to Gimli and Doris' engagement was, in Michael's point of view, far from satisfactory. In fact, it bordered on Unbelievably Apathetic. When Michael had scurried back to Gandalf's chaise lounge, upon which Francis was dozing, and excitedly relayed the news that Gimli was getting married, Francis had merely opened one eye, said in a bored voice: "Again?" and promptly went back to sleep.

Frustrated, and bursting to share his glee, Michael raced around the outbuildings looking for someone upon whom to impart his good news, finally running into Nick, whose reaction was slightly more reasonable. He grinned, nodded, and went back to what he was doing. Feeling somewhat deflated, Michael shuffled back to the clearing.

"I wonder if he's deaf?" he thought, and with a sigh sat back down in the dilapidated beach chair next to the now-snoring Francis. Michael looked half-heartedly around for something to drink, spied a pitcher and a bowl of ice on the crate beside Francis' elbow, and after finding a tumbler went to fill it. There was no nutmeg, but he drank it anyway, hoping someone else – anyone else – would show up soon, so he could impart his gossip upon a more willing receptacle. "Arwen would be nice," he thought, wondering where she'd got to, and wishing he had an available Girlfriend. Doris, obviously, would be rather preoccupied for a while.

He dug his feet into the sand and leaned his head back against the pitted headrest of the chair. The breeze was fresh and warm, and big, puffy white clouds roiled and reeled against the powder-blue of the sky, just visible through the rattling stiff palm boughs. He could hear seagulls, and the soft hiss and thump of waves, the sound of the air moving through the foliage, and Nick knocking around in one of the buildings, getting their lunch together. Nick was very strange, but at least his strangeness fit in well with the rest of them. He took them all at face value, was perfectly cheerful, completely incurious, and eerily silent. But as he kept their clothes and bathrooms clean and fixed all their meals, Michael felt he couldn't complain much.

Something tickled at the edge of his hearing and he concentrated, trying to sharpen the sound in his mind. At last he realized it was someone singing, though he couldn't tell from where the voice came. Deciding it was too light to be Gimli, and too clear to be Aragorn, and too masculine to be either Arwen or Doris, he concluded it must be Legolas. He looked over at Francis. His lover was stretched out, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing heavily, giving Michael every indication of Deep Slumber. Deciding it couldn't hurt to seek out more stimulating company, Michael quietly got up and left.

After casting about for a minute, he determined Legolas was on the western side of the island and started off in that direction. Norman Island was tiny, and it only took him five minutes to get to the beach down there, shuffling through the sandy undergrowth and cursing slightly when he came upon a sharp shell or pointy stick beneath his bare feet. At last he gained the beach, and through the leaning palms he could see Legolas, standing waist-deep in the swelling, heaving blue, bare shoulders cut in two by his streaming white-blond hair, gazing out to the horizon, his hands upraised. Michael paused, wondering if this were some sort of Alien Religious Ritual and not wanting to disturb him. After a moment, though, Legolas stopped singing and turned to look at him in the shadows, smiling equably.

Michael swallowed. Even after three weeks, Legolas' smile was enough to make his heart turn over. His smooth high cheekbones coalesced when those sweet pink lips stretched upward, dimpling, and his aquamarine eyes sparkled with secret merriment. It didn't help, of course, that Michael could see the lean muscular curvature of his chest and abdomen, and his long sculpted arms glittering with pale soft hair. When the waves dipped down low enough he could even see the golden glint of curls beneath the twist of his navel. Legolas didn't speak, but gestured Michael forward with a jerk of his head.

Obediently Michael set his tumbler down into the sand and waded out to him. The water felt thick and unyielding around his legs, slowing him, but he slogged forward, feeling once again that tugging, pulling compulsion to be with this strange man.

When he approached, Legolas held out his hand, smiling encouragingly. Michael smiled back and touched his fingers to Legolas' palm. The skin was wet and warm. Legolas pulled him in deeper and they swam for a while, not speaking. It was strange how speech seemed unnecessary sometimes, especially since Legolas was such a strange person himself. After five minutes of nearly no words whatsoever (except for the occasional, "Look, there are some dolphins," or, "Hey, I found a starfish!") Legolas paddled back to the bar, where he stood and stretched, distending his sinewy body above the flexing, pulsing waves, and brushing his wet hair back from his face, exposing the long alien curve of his ears.

Michael stood beside him, shaking the water out of his curls, and studied him. There were as yet still some long striated wrinkles radiating out from his eye, showing where his wound had been, but that served only to emphasize the molded perfection of his features. Michael wondered how many times Legolas had died, and if it hurt him worse each time. Legolas didn't seem to notice his staring, but looked himself out to the horizon, seeming preoccupied. After a moment he looked down at Michael and smiled again.

"We're both fuckin' bustin' with news, aren’t we, Mike?" he said, grinning, showing all his strong white teeth. "Tell yer what. You first, then me."

"Okay," said Michael, brightening. The knowledge that Legolas could Read Him didn't bother him anymore. Sharing dreams and visions kind of broke down that awkward barrier. Besides that, his Good News had simmered a while in his belly and gotten all the sweeter, and he was anxious to relay it. "I just talked with Gimli and Doris and they're getting married!"

If he had been expecting a repeat of Francis' indifferent rejoinder he was pleasantly disappointed. Legolas' face lit up, suffused with joy, but there was a hint of relief behind it as well.  "Well, fuckin' finally!" he exclaimed, laughing breathily. "Five fuckin' years I've been tellin' Grim to tie the knot, but the poor bugger's been burned so bloody many times he was right gun-shy."

"But Doris will treat him right," said Michael confidently.

"Oh, she will," agreed Legolas, looking out at the horizon again, folding his arms over his chest. The breeze had picked up and their wet skin had puckered into goose bumps in the sudden chill. "Not like his other wives, those manky gold-diggin' back-stabbin' skanky kerb-crawlin' bitchy slags." At Michael's startled look he added apologetically, "Sorry, mate – couldn't stand 'em – especially those last three, nearly went spare each fuckin' time he got hitched – kept tellin' him, 'Grim, don't do it, mate, she's only after yer lollie,' but he married 'em anyway, the stupid gobshite."

Well, that explained Francis' response. If Grim had been married more than three times already, it was no wonder Francis' only reaction had been one of bored acquiescence. "He'll treat her right, won't he?" asked Michael anxiously, suddenly aware of Gimli's past mistakes and wondering if it would come back to Haunt Them.

"He'd better," said Legolas grimly. "He fucks her over, I'll have his knacks, swear to Elbereth I will."

Michael felt a little better, knowing Legolas would watch out for Doris' welfare as assiduously as his own. Deciding he couldn't do much about it anyway (barring patience and a willing ear during any late-night phone calls complaining about Gimli's perfidy) he figured he might as well continue to be happy for them, which was more comfortable than worrying, anyway. "So what's your news?" he asked cheerfully, following Legolas' gaze onto the horizon. There was something there against the smooth curve of the earth, a little blot, like a jutting knife.

"Éowyn," whispered Legolas. When Michael turned to him he saw his companion's face was tense, expectant, anticipatory joy simmering beneath his calm surface, staring with such focused determination at the speck on the horizon it seemed almost as though he were trying to lure it into harbor himself.

Michael felt a sympathetic thrill. His beloved wife! At last! Even having never met the woman himself, Michael recalled the lovely golden being hovering, reaching to her husband, and his heart turned over. To love and be loved to such an extent, so deeply, firmly, adamantly, mystically ... He knew he could never engender such emotions, either for or from anyone – no, not even Francis – but to experience them vicariously was breathtaking, mortifying, humbling. Without realizing it he gripped Legolas' arm in buoyant zeal, flooded with the sudden assurance that the coming of Legolas' "acushla" (what DID that mean?) was propitious, and soon everything would be All Right.

"And then we can go to Kennebunkport and get the _Evenstar_ and take care of Dr. Ahn and things will calm down," he thought excitedly. Reading about exciting escapades was all very well, but Michael was methodical and loved routine and consistency, and these past weeks had rattled him more than he liked to admit. He wanted a bed and a shower and his loofa and moisturizers and regular trips to the manicurist and dry cleaners. He was not made for Grand Adventures, and didn't care who knew it.

They stood together, stomachs swallowed in the rising tide, as the blot coalesced into a triangle, and the triangle into a set of sails, and the set of sails into an approaching sailboat, white, broad in the beam, with a high gilded prow and a green pennant fluttering from the masthead. It was big, much bigger than the _Semi-Impermeable_. Michael, ignorant as he was, could see that in an instant: This was no cheap, old, decrepit, good-enough-for-government-work boat. This was a Work of Art – from this distance he could catch the glint of the metalwork, the shining brass accents, the pristine white finish, and – was that warm yellow-brown TEAK? Its high mast sported blinding white sails, not the patched, tattered, greyed sheets propelling their own stolen boat, and it was huge – easily four times the length of their sloop – quartering in to the shallows, wallowing like a whale on its broad spotless keel. It bespoke wealth, luxury, speed, True Impermeability – Michael would feel Safe on a boat like that – no disreputable, dilapidated wreck this. Every curve, every line, every detail promised comfort and opulence and security. Not surprising, really, thought Michael, considering Legolas' rooms at the Lido. Anyone who could commandeer a suite of that magnificence couldn't be hurting financially, and as Legolas seemed to gather about himself a sort of high aesthetic miasma, the fact that his sailboat would be a notch above anything else Michael had ever seen did not seem out of character. In fact, it would have been more IN character for Legolas to flaunt whatever especial charms his boat possessed, that no one else's would – Michael wondered if he'd had a professional see to the interior décor, and if not, if he would be interested in hiring a contractor.

"What is it?" he whispered, gripping Legolas' bicep tighter.

"Perini Navi," said Legolas. His eyes were alight with the Aesthete's fervor. "Custom job – came off the line in Viareggio year afore last. Ed Dubois team – paid an arseload for it – worth it, though. Helps I speak Italian."

This didn't tell Michael much, but the reverent tones in Legolas' voice as he spoke conferred to Michael the worth and value of the ship. They watched in silence as the anchor was weighed, and, caught in a cross-current, the boat drifted slightly, so that its stern presented itself partway.

Michael read, in elegant gilt script across the back wall, LA DAMA BIANCA out of VERSILIA. Then the anchor caught, and the boat shifted back, its proud prow rising like a scimitar out of the water. He could see people, small and dark, moving against the rails, then with a splash a dinghy was lowered, and the sound of an outboard motor broke the morning stillness.

It approached, holding two people. As they grew closer Michael saw it was a short, swarthy man, bearded and very fat, with a red-veined nose and squinting eyes beneath his battered baseball cap. Beside him was a tall, glowing woman, slim, with long dark brown hair, clad in nothing but a miniscule pink bikini and a pair of – were those Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses? They were, and pink as well – who sat in the prow, beaming happily at them and waving. Legolas laughed and waved back.

"That's not your wife," said Michael accusingly, not sure whether he should wave or not.

" 'S not," said Legolas. "That's me sister-in-law – good little woman, that."

The dinghy slowed and coasted up to them, and the woman stood, handed her sunglasses to the man at the back, and jumped into the water, splashing them both. She surfaced with a delighted laugh, like a crow on nitrous oxide, tossing her wet hair back, and launched herself at Legolas with a squeal.

"We MADE it!" she exclaimed, kicking up foam about them in her excitement. "Look! We MADE it!"

Michael watched, aghast, as it appeared she was attempting to drown her brother-in-law, but Legolas proved the stronger – and the better-balanced – and managed to hold her up as she embraced him with more enthusiasm than common sense. The man in the dinghy cut the engine and waited, leaning back on the side of the boat indolently. He caught Michael's eye and gave an indifferent nod of greeting.

"And LOOK!" the woman continued, releasing Legolas and propelling herself with frightening accuracy and zest toward Michael, who cringed. "It's Michael – ISN'T it Michael, Legolas? It HAS to be!"

Before Michael knew what was happening, the woman had nearly strangled him in her embrace, her slim wet limbs wrapped around his neck and slick dark hair slapped in his face. He braced himself on the bar, grateful his thighs were up to the strain, and tentatively put his hands around her slender waist. She felt smooth and warm beneath his palms. "I KNEW you were Michael the minute I saw you, and I was like, 'Honey, it's him, I have to meet him,' and Éomer was like, 'Okay, Sweetie,' and Dave let me go with him in the dinghy – didn't you, Dave? – and the whole way over I'm like, 'I can't believe it's him,' and here you are, and isn't it WONDERFUL!"

"Fuckin' marvelous," said Legolas, and although he sounded sarcastic Michael caught the affectionate undertone. "Wotcher, Dave."

"Legs," said the man in the boat.

"Good sail?"

"Not bad, picked up a good wind at Bermuda. Need to resupply."

"Nick'll take care of it."

"Gotcha."

During this interchange, the woman withdrew from Michael a little, her nearly-naked body still pushed and pulsed against him by the surging water. It felt uncomfortably intimate, though she certainly didn't seem to notice. She took Michael's face in her hands and looked into his eyes earnestly.

"Is Francis taking good care of you?" she asked anxiously, her brown eyes deep pools of reckless sincerity. "And was it too horrible? I hope it wasn't too horrible because that would be just AWFUL."

"You must be Lottie," said Michael a little breathlessly, remembering what Gandalf had said about her acumen. Legolas gave a shout of laughter – he must have remembered, too.

The woman's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Yes!" she squealed, and hugged him again, nearly strangling him with her arms. "How wonderful! You've HEARD of me!"

"Only good things, I promise!" squawked Michael, trying to draw in his breath and not swallow sea water at the same time.

She let go of him as abruptly as she'd embraced him. "I want to see Arwen," she announced, pushing away from them and starting to shore. "Go to the boat; Éowyn wants you, Legolas."

"Wants to see me, or just wants me?" asked Legolas, eyes twinkling.

"Both, silly!" Lottie turned, treading water, and looked at him critically. "What did you do to your EYE?"

"Got shot."

"AGAIN?" Shaking her head in disgust, she began to butterfly to the shore. Legolas sighed, still grinning after her. Then he turned to Dave and said, "Take us to the Lady, Dave. Been a long time and I'm gaggin' for me darlin'."

"No prob," said Dave, and Michael, with Legolas' help, clambered into the dinghy while the fat man trimmed. Barely rocking it, Legolas launched himself in, and Dave started up the engine with a jerk, turned the dinghy, and they headed back to the ship.

Close up, the _White Lady_ was even more impressive. Michael had grown used to the _Semi-Impermeable's_ disreputable exterior, the pitted rails, barnacle-speckled hull, faded accoutrements. This white monster displayed her charms insolently, proclaiming to all viewers her quality and superiority to anything else in the Caribbean. Even the ladder up which they clambered was ornately decorated, each bar striated to not only prevent slippage, but to resemble tree branches, and the bolts were topped with what looked like stylized acorns.

Michael climbed up after Legolas, having to remind himself not too look at the blonde’s assets too closely – "Married to a woman, remember, married to a woman," he repeated to himself, biting his lip – and took Legolas' proffered hand onto the deck, looking about with frank curiosity.

There was a man standing there, huge, imposing, intimidating, but grinning from ear to ear, his white teeth gleaming through his thick blond beard. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, rope-soled shoes, and a white linen shirt, unbuttoned, showing the fuzzy triangle of blond hair on his broad muscular chest. "All Man," thought Michael, his heart skipping. It was his fate, he supposed, to be surrounded by Alphas – not a bad thing, really. At least they were attractive ones, though this one was so obviously straight it nearly hurt.

"Legolas!" the man boomed, extending one big hand. Grinning back, Legolas took it, and they embraced, slapping each other’s' shoulders in a very Manly and Heterosexual way. "Good to see ya!"

"Ta, mate," said Legolas, then turned and gestured to Michael, who approached cautiously, still stinging from the bigoted and vulgar reaction he'd gotten from their previous island-guests. This big man, with his six-pack abs and aggressively masculine bearing, was not likely to be very tolerant of an undersized homosexual interior designer, and Michael braced himself for the cautious and slightly paranoid greeting, Standard Fare from one of this type. "This is Michael Morris," said Legolas, tugging Michael forward. Michael extended his hand, which looked very small and weak compared to the big brown mitt that immediately covered it. "Mike, me brother-in-law, Éomer."

"Michael, of course," said Éomer, shaking his hand firmly and peering down intently into Michael's eyes. Michael flinched, waiting for the sarcastic comment or cutting remark, but when Éomer released his hand he barked: "Faramir treating you well? Not pushing you around, is he? 'Cause if he is – " His jaw tightened, and his eyes got a little hard. Michael suddenly realized Éomer was going to be as protective of him as Legolas, and felt surprised, but immeasurably relieved.

"Francis – Faramir – treats me very well," he said earnestly, gazing up into the handsome, defiant face. "Really, he does, I have no complaints."

"No?" The Unibrow climbed up into his thick curly hair. "Well, if he starts getting pushy, let me know, and I'll straighten him out." He cracked his knuckles, and Michael gulped. He hated to see what this big belligerent man would do to Francis if pushed too far.

"Now, now," chided a woman's voice from behind them, low and sweet, like a cat's purr. "Be nice, Éomer. I'm sure Francis is being the perfect gentleman."

The three men turned, and for the first time Michael saw a woman who, while being perfectly female, was more Man than he could ever hope to be.

She exited the blue shadow of the biminy on legs so long they seemed to lift her smoothly swinging hips far too high. Her arms were slender but trim and strong, and her long lean waist, sporting a thin gold chain, beneath its flawless golden skin held muscle, bunching and stretching as she walked up to them, wide red mouth smiling, eyes half-closed. She was dressed in a miniscule poison-green bikini, a shimmering pareo only partly obscuring her hips and one leg. Huge gold hoops danced from her earlobes, and her tawny hair was pinned up, exposing a long slender throat. She flicked her gaze over her brother, then Michael, but it was obvious when her eyes met Legolas' that all coherent thought faded, and they might as well have been alone.

For himself, Legolas, when he turned to her, became very still, all the kinetic twitchy energy leaving him. His spine straightened and he regarded her with an intensely focused look, his blue eyes seeming almost to darken, the pupils swollen black. The air practically crackled with the sudden tension as the two regarded one another, immobile, alert, unmindful of anything save each other. Michael found he was holding his breath, and when the fat man, Dave, finally heaved his vast bulk over the side and thumped down next to him, he stifled a squeak of surprise.

Éowyn flickered her eye to Dave, then moved, lifting one long-fingered hand to touch her husband's cheek. "What happened?" she asked softly.

"Got shot," said Legolas absently, reaching up and pressing her hand to his face, his eyes lost in her gaze.

Michael braced himself for the "Again?" response Legolas always seemed to get to this comment, but instead, the silvery eyes unfocused, drifted over her husband's face, lingering on the cupid's bow-lips. "Poor baby," she breathed, leaning forward, her lips curving into a slow smile. Legolas' eyes shifted to her mouth, parted his lips, and Michael let out a long, slow breath as they kissed, slowly, languidly, glittering eyes shuttered, long fingers entwined. After a breathless moment, during which he realized to his consternation his heartbeat had accelerated, they broke off, glanced at the three men watching them, and smiled.

"You'll excuse us, won't you?" Éowyn asked sweetly, and taking her husband by the hand led him below. His feral grin and wink to Michael only confirmed that it would probably take them a while to resurface. He looked over at Éomer, wondering what her brother thought of all of this, only to see him rubbing his hands together satisfactorily, smiling after them, a look of tender affection on his broad coarse features.

"Well, that takes care of _them_ for a while," he said briskly, grinning at Michael. "Thought she'd spontaneously combust before we got here. Bet Legolas was just as bad."

Dave gave a laugh that was little more than a snort, and went back to the rail. "Gonna see Nick," he said, and swung himself over and down the ladder again. The other two men stood at the rail and watched him get in the dinghy, fire up the motor, and head back to the island.

After a moment, as though they had come to some silent agreement, they both moved away from the rail and stood facing each other. Michael shifted on his feet, feeling very uncomfortable and awkward, as he and Éomer stood and watched each other cautiously. There was a short, inelegant silence, and then Éomer cleared his throat.

"Ever do any fishing?" he asked hopefully. "Lots of marlin out there."

"Um," said Michael, unsure. He looked up into Éomer's face and read his own unease, though he could tell it wasn't born of any sort of prejudice toward his sexual preference – it was merely the restlessness engendered by trying to find a subject of conversation with a stranger. Taking heart from this, he gave the man a warm smile.

"I've never fished before," he said. "Tell me all about it." That, he thought, ought to get them through the next hour or so, until Legolas and his beloved Acushla rejoined them. Chattering happily, Éomer went over all the finer points of sport fishing, and Michael was relieved to feel them both relax. "We'll be friends," he thought, and while smiling and nodding at Éomer let the warm rush of fraternity flood him.


	21. Political Ramifications

  1. **Political Ramifications**



 

 

They sent the silent Nick and the nearly-as-silent Dave (or "Captain Dave," as Lottie called him) to Tortola in the _Semi-Impermeable_ to pick up the bulk of their supplies – "We'll refill the water tanks in the _White Lady_ tomorrow," Legolas had said, "when we drop Dave off on St. John." So it was just them, without any outsiders – barring Doris and Michael, who at least had Day Passes into this Exclusive Society – sitting round the huge bonfire on the beach, driftwood crackling, lobsters and conch hissing and sizzling, fresh pineapple soaked in white rum flaming up briefly on their long skewers – sometimes not so briefly, when Éomer and Gimli got a little silly, running round the circle of seated people with incinerated fruit on sticks, singing the Olympic Games theme – mango cut fresh from the pit and leaving little stringy things in their teeth, day-old bread wrapped in aluminum foil and warmed by the coals, soaked in butter. And, of course, the Painkillers – pitchers and pitchers of them – cooled and diluted with buckets of ice, sprinkled all over with tangy bitter nutmeg.

Michael reflected, as he pulled the jiggling white flesh from a particularly recalcitrant rock lobster tail, that the state of perpetual tipsiness he felt on Norman Island was a combined result of the amount of alcohol he ingested, and the overwhelming number of Beautiful People who circled him. Blondes, brunettes, blue eyes, gray eyes, square jaws, aquiline noses, high cheekbones, full lips, slim hard stomachs, swelling breasts. Except for Doris, Gimli, Gandalf, and himself, anyone would have thought they'd stumbled upon some Retired Scandinavian Super-Model's Convention. Well, if nothing else, he reflected, even if they didn’t figure out what's been happening, at least the scenery was more than acceptable.

At last, when the stars burned bright in the deep blue sky, the surf swished and shuddered on the sand, and the glow of the embers deepened to a rich golden orange over the black burnt sticks, Gandalf rose and cleared his throat, and the desultory talk around the campfire died down. Michael looked around, wondering if he and Doris were finally going to be let in on some secrets, and if they'd understand any more about what this odd fraternity was all about.

Éomer and Lottie were sitting together, Éomer laughing, Lottie giggling, his hand under her beach towel, groping stealthily. Doris and Gimli were pressed side by side, exchanging looks that were at once hopeful and bewildered. Aragorn and Arwen also sat, arms around each other, Arwen's skin gleaming like moonstone. And Legolas and Éowyn – well, they were nothing more than a deliberate affront to decency, those two. There was an insolent, a blatantly overt sensuality to their dealings with each other that was lost in any other couple, Éomer and Lottie included. One could almost feel the sexual tension that shimmered between them, coming up into sparks like electricity whenever their skin came close to touching – which was nearly always, Michael noted – could see the glowing, restless awareness in their eyes as they glanced at each other, the light contraction of their skin when their arms or legs brushed together, the flicker of recognition at the turn of a phrase, or inflection of a word spoken. Even their two-hour hiatus into the private stateroom at the stern of the White Lady hadn't sated them, and no one seemed to find this strange – "Rabbits, those two," Aragorn had said with a wry laugh as they'd finally come in to shore, flushed and gleaming, hand in hand. Michael had even caught the fading remains of a bite-mark on Legolas' throat. It would have made Michael happy for them, had it not had so obviously a disconcerting effect on Francis.

Michael knew Francis was watching them, knew the pale eyes beneath their hooded lids studied the couple's movements, listened closely to their whispers, warily watched each brush of the fingertip, sidelong glance, twitchy shifting of hips. Michael could even feel him flinch or shudder whenever Legolas touched Éowyn – whenever those long-fingered, white hands, glowing slightly in the starlight, traced a pattern on the golden skin, whenever rose-red lips would teasingly flicker over pink cupid's bows, whenever long dark lashes fluttered down over silvery eyes in response to the aquamarine invitation to dalliance. Michael, sitting curled in the crook of Francis' long warm arm, full of rum and lobster, ought to have been content and comfortable snuggled up against his lover, but he could hear Francis' erratic heartbeat, feel him tense and quiver, and wondered miserably if Francis were jealous of Éowyn.

Hard not to be, really, he thought. After all, look at Legolas – the firelight flickering off his alabaster skin, columbine-pink lips pouting and curving, the swell of his pectoral muscles over that long lean stomach, the sheet of silvery hair lifting and twining around his head. All that had been Francis' at one point, but due to their Break-Up (for whatever reasons. Michael instinctively knew that would be a Not-Discussed, so he didn't even bother asking) Legolas had run to another's arms – a WOMAN'S arms – a beautiful woman's arms – a woman who made Michael feel Very Strange – he got the feeling Éowyn wouldn't take too kindly to Michael's rather desperate sexual awareness of her husband – and now Legolas and Éowyn were pressed together, lissome limbs entwined, slender fingers wandering, slim torsos shifting and flexing as they lay together, long legs extended and gleaming like polished marble in the firelight. Had Legolas been his once, that sight would have provoked him, too.

"Legolas," said Gandalf, smiling down at the entangled couple, "I'm sure your wife has something of relative import to divulge to us – would you do us the favor of suspending your groping and letting her sit up and speak? You two can resume your reunion when we're finished."

"Prat," said Legolas languidly, and Éowyn laughed and sat up out of her husband's arms, rising to her feet and brushing the sand off her long golden thighs.

"All right, then," she said, in her resonant, rather deep voice. It was smooth, but somewhat husky. A Sexy Voice, a Kathleen Turner Voice. Michael decided he would have liked her voice had it belonged to anyone but Éowyn – he felt a little resentful toward her. Not that he had any reason to, and didn't even fool himself he had any reason. It was simply the primal hot resentment of an animal thwarted in search of a mate. Recognizing its source and realizing its inappropriateness did nothing to squash it, either. Michael knew he'd just have to Work Through It, and in the meantime, so as not to rock any boats, pretend nothing was wrong.

So he looked up at her with an assumed expression of polite interest when she stood, lean golden body washed in the flickering glow, hands on the swell of her hips, hair tumbling in riotous topaz curls around her shoulders. She smiled down at them – there it was, that air of authority – what WAS it with these people? – and began to speak.

"Senator Holman went first," she said, hooking her thumbs in the sequined straps of her bikini bottoms. They stretched a little over her pelvic bone, and Michael wondered if he were going to find out if she were a Natural Blonde or not. "Poor fellow, stepped in front of a speeding car – hit and run. Broken bones, but mainly head injuries – quite a lot of blood. Very gruesome." She gave a tight, pitiless smile. "Shame, eh?"

Her brother laughed, and Arwen rolled her eyes. Doris looked a little shocked, but bit her lip and said nothing. For himself, Michael was a little appalled at her cavalier attitude. But then, hadn't that been what she was supposed to do – "deal with" the two rogue senators, who were planning to murder twenty million Koreans? "Witnesses?" asked Gimli gruffly.

            "Tons," said Éowyn, shrugging. "Busy intersection in DC, loads of taxis and buses and tourists and shit. Clipped him with the corner of the jeep, and after he fell, backed over him for good measure. Then I took off, made sure people got my tag number – the one I stole from that cab company in Arkansas," she said, grinning.

"And I fed misinformation to the police," said Éomer, white teeth flashing in his blond beard. " 'Oh, yes, officers, I saw the whole thing,' " he said in a high assumed voice. " 'I can tell you ALL about it.' " He threw his head back and laughed, striking his thigh with the palm of his hand. "Stupid cops, bought the whole story."

"All right then," said Gandalf, smiling tenderly at the brother and sister. "What about Fischer?"

Éowyn's eyes brightened, and her long red mouth curled into a cruel smile. "Yes, Fischer," she said, and rubbed her long narrow palms together. Her voice had deepened, and took on an almost brutal tone. "That greedy piece of work … did you know he had a bad heart?" She smiled, looked around the circle. "You wouldn't think that sonofabitch even HAD a heart, the way he acts. But he does, suffers from a common form of angina. Takes Lanoxin. Careless bastard took a double dose. Died at home in bed."

"Clever," admitted Gandalf, raising his bushy white eyebrows at her as she grinned. "So they're both dead, eh?"

"No," said Éowyn. "Only Fischer is dead. Holman's still alive."

Those bushy eyebrows lowered over the bright black eyes, and he frowned. "But – "

"EEG was a flat-liner," said Lottie brightly, smiling around the circle. "I dressed up as a candy-striper, worked the emergency room. They're talking about pulling the plug, but his wife doesn't want to pay off his debts. Silly, huh?"

"You'd think his insurance policy would cover them," said Arwen disapprovingly.

"If he had insurance, sure," rumbled Gimli with a deep chuckle. "I checked out his private finances – kind of gambled everything on the Sŏndŏk." He grinned over at Francis. "Remember, Faramir? Over two hundred fifty thousand just in credit card debts – that wife of his sure can buy the designer shoes."

Michael shuddered. And here he'd been worried about carrying over a two hundred dollar balance on his Mastercard! Francis was watching Éowyn, his eyes cautious, and when he spoke he sounded almost … impressed.

"You managed to poison Fischer with his own medication, and run over Holman in such a way no one could be positive it was deliberate?" he said slowly. When Éowyn grinned and nodded he said reluctantly, "Well … that was very … efficient of you, Éowyn. I'm very impressed."

"And SHE didn't get shot in the process," said Lottie with a giggle, poking Legolas' thigh with one finger. He gave her a dirty look when everyone laughed, but Michael was watching him when Gandalf started speaking again and gathered their attention – Legolas looked up at Éowyn, his eyes full of pride.

"I guess an assassin would like to be married to another assassin," thought Michael, "so long as they weren't competing against each other." He watched as Éowyn sat, nestling down into the circle of her husband's arms, smiling smugly at Legolas. He grinned, took her hand in his own, and brought it to his lips. Michael was expecting him to kiss it, and stifled a squeak of surprise when, with slow deliberation, Legolas opened his mouth and bit her middle finger.

"So Holman is bound to die eventually," said Gandalf thoughtfully, stroking his beard with his wrinkled fingers. "Actually that's better, I think, than having both senators die on the same night – it won't stretch the bounds of anyone's imagination to think it coincidence."

"It was Éomer's idea," said Éowyn, withdrawing her finger from Legolas' mouth.

Éomer shrugged. "Éowyn just wanted to plug 'em both and head for the tropics. I thought this'd look more natural."

"All right, then," said Gandalf. His dark eyes were sparkling. "And now we'll hear from Gimli and Doris – Éomer's faction hasn't had that report yet."

Michael sat up a little – what was wrong with him? Why hadn't he even thought to ask Doris what they'd been doing in Miami? Stealing a boat, obviously, but before that? What, what had Francis said about Miami, when he had been baiting Major-General Fitzpatrick? Something about a back-up drop? He met Doris' eyes, and she smiled a little, and blushed. Gimli didn't bother standing up – just boomed over the bonfire.

"Yeah, we got into Miami three days after leaving California. Went to the warehouse at Fort Dallas, got in with the fake ID – thanks for that, by the way, Faramir," he added, grinning at Francis, who smiled and inclined his head. "Amazing what top security clearance gets you, real smart of you to get that card and the building diagram. Helped a lot. Got to the mainframes, busted through the safeties and slapped the virus in. Biggest calculators in Miami, now," he added with a big laugh. "Made extra-sure it was hosed and took off before alarms even began to sound."

He turned to Doris then, and took her hand. "Even had time for some really good swordfish on Biscayne Boulevard before finding that wreck on Claughton. And this brilliant little lady – " he gave Doris' hand a squeeze " – managed to schmooze her way past the security guards at Fifteenth. Didn't even see me. They were too busy admiring her Harley." Doris blushed again, and Michael started to feel Impressed and Depressed all at once. Even Doris had managed to help out in the endeavors, and what did he do? Get captured and have to get rescued. Pathetic.

Michael sighed and stopped listening to the buzz of conversation around him, preferring instead to dwell morosely upon his own uselessness. Some of his father's more creative words – _time-wasting, inept, surplus_ – all aimed at Michael's Chosen Profession, used with derision, contempt. A waste of time – it all came back to him, stinging and burning, and he wondered what good he was to anyone, anyway. But when he heard Legolas, in the midst of describing something they'd done, mention his name, his attention swung back around, and he looked up in surprise. Legolas was grinning at him.

"Got a fuckin' GPS right up here, he has," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Bloody good thing, too – left half me brains down in that room, couldn't remember where the hell I was."

Michael blushed. Everyone was looking at him with expressions of approbation on their faces. He felt Francis' arm tighten around him, then Gandalf said: "Yes – and holding his ground when Major-General Fitzpatrick and his sycophants were threatening him in that dreadful fashion! Well, that takes a good bit of courage. Well done, Michael."

Michael felt his face grow hotter. He wanted to thank Gandalf for thinking him brave – though really, he hadn't felt very brave at the time – he'd felt pretty damn terrified, actually – but he only bit his lip and looked down into his lap, at the floral swim trunks he'd worn since arriving on Norman Island. There was an appreciative murmur around the circle, and Éomer said, his voice impressed, "Takes a lot of strength to keep your mouth shut in circumstances like that, friend."

"We told yer he was a keeper," said Legolas, unwrapping a lollipop.

"Was there ever any question?" asked Francis dryly. Michael felt him squeeze him again, and looked up at him a little diffidently. He wasn't used to hearing Francis say such things in public. He was usually so reserved and private. But here Francis was, half-reclined on a sandy beach, his arm around his boyfriend, Public Display of Affection prominently displayed to the whole group, and not only was Francis not uncomfortable with it, no one else seemed to be, either – accepted it unquestioning, not even any pained looks. He'd sort of expected one from Éomer – could ANYONE be as blatantly straight as he? – but oddly enough Éomer didn't seem to mind his and Francis' sexual orientation in the slightest. Once Michael had assured Éomer as to Francis' Good Conduct all residual belligerence seemed to fade.

In fact, when Francis had come aboard the _White_ _Lady_ a little while later, he and Éomer had stood at the stern, discussing sport fishing and dirt bikes with some animation, and idly throwing bread to the sea gulls. Michael had watched them in astonishment. Was this FRANCIS? Hair unkempt, shabby swim trunks, barefoot, carrying on a comfortable conversation about Outdoorsy Things with Thor, God of Thunder? What had happened to that cold, stilted, uptight computer programmer with whom Michael had been living the past six months? Had that just been an Act? No – not an act. Michael reflected that, since accepting his role in this group, Francis' inhibitions and concerns had been slowly melting away, and the more relaxed he became, the more his friends seemed to relax, as well. It was a circle – no, a spiral, a helix – relax and be accepted and feel more relaxed, over and over, like a progressive mantra.

But what had made Francis so tense and exacting and particular, anyway? Why had he fought so hard against accepting Michael's affections? Why had he held himself so aloof, so rigid and edgy for so long? Whatever it had been, Michael was rather glad it had left – he had loved Francis enough as a Type-A-High-Maintenance-White-Collar-Type. This new Francis, the Kindler, Gentler Francis, the Francis who could go on extended hikes and hack into government computer systems and drive a stick shift and sail a boat, was so lovable Michael was surprised at times his heart didn't burst from an overabundance of affection.

He felt Francis' fingers lightly stroke the back of his arm, and his heart gave a big ker-flump. "Please let him love me," he prayed, not sure to which Vala he should be directing his requests, but feeling the need to ask anyway. "Please let him never leave me!"

And he couldn't be certain, but he thought he felt a little glowing tickle in the back of his mind – Legolas' voice – _No worries, mate_ –  

He threw Legolas a startled glance over the crackling flames of the bonfire, and the blond only smiled and gave him a subtle wink through his wife's golden curls. Feeling better, Michael snuggled in closer to Francis, to let his Alpha know he had recognized the little signs and telltale suggestions, and that he was Ready and Willing – MORE than Ready and Willing. He was horny as hell – and hadn't Lottie told him they had a private stateroom, third door on the left? He felt the growing tingling heat in his stomach and gave an anticipatory shiver. Three weeks was WAY too long.

"All right then, chaps," Gandalf was saying, rubbing his dry wrinkled hands together with satisfaction. "Well done, all round. Now all we have left is to run this miscreant to ground. We've had confirmation he's gone with his entourage to Washington, DC, but as his two supporters have suffered unfortunate accidents – " he smiled at Éowyn, who beamed "– he'll be unlikely to find safe haven there. We know he has a home on PEI. We ought to be able to track him down there. As always, he watches the airports – I don't think it's occurred to him yet that we choose other, slower methods of transportation. So it's highly unlikely he'll have any operatives at the docks."

"How many has he got left?" asked Éomer.

"Twelve," said Aragorn. "Two brains and ten brawn. Sam's tracking his communications. He hasn't connected with any outside agents yet. I think he's starting to mistrust the U.S."

"Good," said Francis. He sounded a little irritated. "The sooner he takes off, the better."

"Well, we don't want him wandering round Asia, either," said Gandalf. "Imagine the devastation that would occur, should he sell the Sŏndŏk to an unstable government. No, we need to stop him, and stop him soon. He's far too dangerous to let go free."

"I'm not disagreeing with you," said Francis equably, settling down beside Michael. Their hips were pressed together, and Michael could see the smooth curve of his chest, the scattered dark hair between his nipples, and tiny sparkling grains of sand stuck to his skin. "But I _am_ wondering, who gets to off him?" He looked around the circle, gauged their surprised looks, and continued, "I mean, I'm all for removing him from the gene pool, certainly. Frankly I'm surprised none of you assassinated Heinrich Himmler when you had the chance. But whose job is it to take him down?"

"Are you volunteering for the position?" asked Arwen with a dark smile.

Michael shuddered. He wasn't sure he could stand the thought of Francis as an assassin. Knowing Legolas and Éowyn fell into that category was bad enough. To his consternation, Francis shrugged.

"If you haven't picked anyone yet, it doesn't really matter," he said dismissively. "I just wasn't sure if Legolas had tagged him yet." He looked over at the blond, who was deliberately biting up the length of Éowyn's arm, and said, "Well, Legolas? Going to be greedy and keep this kill all to yourself?"

Legolas paused, eliciting a disappointed murmur from his wife. He grinned at Francis and said, "Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Naw, mate. Manwë's not told me yet. Keep asking him, he keeps fuckin' tellin' me to be patient."

"I'm sure the Valar will tell us when the time comes," said Gandalf with a smile. "Well, is that all, then? Are we caught up? Gimli and Doris, Éomer, Legolas and Faramir – " he ticked them off on his fingers " – We'll celebrate the engagement when we're finished – " Michael beamed at Doris, who blushed happily " – Ah, I think we're all through, then."

He beamed round the circle at them all, like a skinny disheveled Santa bestowing his benediction upon a group of well-behaved children. Michael smiled contentedly up at him. Really, Gandalf – even as Professor White – was such a kindly, grandfatherly type. With is long white beard and bushy eyebrows, he reminded Michael of his own grandfather, whom he'd loved to distraction. What was it Doris had said he did for a living? Taught history at some college in Oxford? It fit him, somehow.

Then Gandalf looked around at them, collecting their attention. Everyone sat up. "Sleep well, all of you. Tomorrow, we hunt." And his black eyes glittered, completely negating his previous resemblance to Santa Claus. Michael's heart nearly stopped when he realized this kindly, scholarly old man was just as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.

He watched Gandalf step over a branch and head into the shadows, and wondered if Gandalf had ever killed anyone, and if so, who it could have been, and whether they'd deserved it or not. Then he remembered Francis' comment about Heinrich Himmler, and with a flash remembered his old history lessons. To his surprise he found himself wishing Gandalf had killed Himmler himself, which proved, he supposed, he was as bloodthirsty as everyone else.

"But he would have deserved it," he thought, looking over at Doris Goldberg, dark-haired, hooked-nosed. "He really would have deserved it. Why didn't they kill HIM?" And full of these morose and resentful thoughts he watched the group disperse.


	22. Francis' Ex

 

  1. **Francis’ Ex**



 

 

Francis lay still in the sand, watching the others rise from the circle around the bonfire and brush themselves off, unmoving, obviously not inclined to hurry. Michael didn't want to move without Francis' approval, so he lay quietly, too. And as Francis still had one long brown arm curled possessively around Michael's waist, pulling him up so close Michael was sure he could feel his heart beat through his rib cage, he didn't think Francis would take too kindly to Michael's attempts to Freshen Up. "Then again," he thought, feeling the slow rhythmic pressure of Francis' fingers against his side, "it's been so long, he's probably not even going to care."

He was glad he'd been able to shave that morning with a real razor – Nick was nothing if not well-supplied – and glad they had fresh-water showers to use. Although he was still a little sandy in spots, and slicked up with SPF 50, he knew at least he wasn't the sticky, prickly, musky guy he'd been a scant few days ago, when they'd finally left the _Semi-Impermeable_ and slogged up the beach. And Francis, of course, was Devastatingly Attractive even WITHOUT all those toiletry accompaniments.

He looked around the beach. Nearly everyone had dispersed – Gimli and Doris were staying on the island. They had already claimed the big canvas hammocks. Éomer and Lottie were groping each other in the darkness behind them (Michael could hear Lottie's giggles and Éomer's muttered encouragements) and would probably sleep in the lean-to. Gandalf practically lived in his battered chaise lounge anyway. Aragorn and Arwen were making ready the dinghy, and Legolas, his pale torso glowing in the starlight, had waded out to check the motor. No one was watching … Michael nuzzled Francis' jaw. He could smell him, like clean dirt and cold stone – outdoorsy, woodsy, masculine. Francis stirred, brushed his lips across Michael's forehead, then looked down at him with a smile.

"Getting a little frisky?" he asked, his deep voice playful. Michael reached up one hand and toyed with the thick thatch of dark hair on his chest.

"Getting a little anxious," he said, giving Francis one of Those Looks – the patented Michael Wants To Get Laid Look, complete with Winsome Smile and Puppy Dog Eyes, and a little bit of Fluttering Eyelashes mixed in to drive the point home.

Francis, not being an idiot, recognized the Look instantly. His gray eyes darkened as his pupils dilated, and his smile became tight and feral. He reached up to Michael's hand and flattened it against his chest. Michael could feel the sudden acceleration of his heart. He bit his lip and looked eagerly up at his lover, seeing his own reflection in those gray eyes. He could tell he looked a bit desperate, but so what? He was.

Francis ran his hand from Michael's wrist up his arm, cupping the smaller man's shoulder in his warm wide palm and pulling him closer. Michael's breath hitched. Francis' face was close now, so close Michael could feel his breath gusting around his mouth. He couldn't help looking down at Francis' lips – _please, please kiss me_ , he wanted to say. _Kiss me and kiss me and kiss me_ – sure enough, the wet willing mouth touched his, their lips sliding together, fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

It had been so long since Michael had had a proper kiss that he gave a happy moan, and when the tip of Francis' tongue brushed his lower lip he opened his mouth to the kiss, letting Francis have his Wicked Way with him. And Francis could indeed be Wicked – he knew Michael was all keyed up and restless and horny, yet he toyed with his lover's mouth, teasing his lips open, stroking his tongue with his own, refusing to take Michael's hints to be touched and simply caressing Michael's cheek, smiling slyly at Michael's agitated whimpers and wriggles. It was driving Michael crazy. Why wouldn't Francis just touch him, just once –

"Patience," Francis whispered against his mouth. Michael opened his eyes and looked with excruciating longing at him. He didn't WANT to be patient. Hadn't he been patient for three weeks already? Well – not really patient, he admitted. But at least he'd waited, hadn't he? With a minimum of complaining? Surely that ought to count for SOMETHING, right? Francis rubbed Michael's lower lip with his thumb and smiled. "I think we ought to get back to our stateroom before we get too excited, darling. Don't you?"

"No," said Michael, boldly throwing his leg over Francis' hip and pressing them together. To his surprise, Francis didn't push him away. Instead he just laughed and put his arm around Michael's waist. "I don't want to wait." He brought his lips up to Francis' ear and whispered, "I've always wanted to try sex on the beach."

Francis drew back a little and looked at him, eyebrows raised, smiling. "Have you really?" he asked, starting to grin. He pushed his hips up against Michael's, and Michael, feeling the physical symptom of Francis' arousal, gave a delighted little gasp. "Well, to tell you the truth, I've never tried it before – "

"Gritty," said a voice above them. Michael jerked back from Francis in surprised mortification, but Francis, for a wonder, didn't seem discommoded at all. He just rolled onto his back and looked up at Éowyn, inverted above them both, her hands on her hips, smiling down at them. Her riotous curls tumbled like gold floss around her winsome face, like a halo around a saint. But no saint was ever painted like that, in a sparkling minuscule bikini, just three triangles of spangles really, her Barbie-body smooth and burnished by the firelight.

" 'Gritty'?" Francis repeated, one eyebrow climbing up into his forehead. She laughed and ran her long fingers through her hair.

"Yes, indeedy," she said, winking at Michael, who was trying to hide the tent in the front of his trunks. "It's all right for some foreplay, but when you get down to business you'll want to find a different venue – unless you want your rectum exfoliated."

Michael gave a surprised squeak at the thought. Francis grimaced fastidiously and said, "Well, we'll think about it, thank you."

"No prob," she said, grinning, and took herself on her Mile-High Legs down to the beach. She, Legolas, and the Walkers started up the outboard, and the dinghy purred off, leaving behind a foamy iridescent triangle in its wake.

Michael watched them go, feeling a little angry. Damn her for interrupting their sex-play! But still, the word "gritty" didn't exactly encourage him to continue – it wouldn't be THAT uncomfortable, would it? Surely with a little lubrication – he jumped a little when he felt Francis' hands on his back. As they moved around to his chest and belly he felt the slow excitement begin to build again, picking up where they'd left off.

"Now then," Francis murmured into his ear, pressing himself up against Michael's back. Michael moaned, and felt Francis' tongue, hot and questing, tracing a pattern on the back of his neck. He gave a gratified wriggle backwards, feeling the swimsuit material abrading something Very Interesting that was resting against his backside. "Where were we?"

Michael sighed and surrendered, as he knew he would anyway. As he arched his back and stretched out his throat to give Francis better access, he looked up at the stars, glimmering cold and sparkling in the velvety black, and a feeling of peace washed over him, as though they watched, and did not disapprove.

 

*************

 

Unfortunately Éowyn had been right. In addition to the fact they had no lubrication besides the leftover butter (clotted with crumbs, and greasy and cold in the discarded aluminum foil), the sand was proving itself to be a major hindrance to Michael's comfort. Reluctantly the two of them admitted their defeat at the hands of the Elements – though really, thought Michael, it had been a definite thrill to make out on a beach beneath the stars, so Romantic – and it was gratifying to know he and Francis had both made good grades in Heavy Petting 101 – Michael had been willing to give it a shot, but Francis, unwilling to hurt him, had rolled off of him and led him to the old dinghy.

Gimli had repaired it when they'd arrived at Norman Island – Michael was glad. Bailing was not high on his List of Preferred Pastimes – and Francis, with that thoughtless competence that never failed to excite his lover, started it up and headed to the White Lady. Michael sat in the bow, looking back at Francis, gloating over the trim dark torso gleaming in the starlight, the way his glossy black hair tossed and ruffled in the breeze, deliciously contemplating all the hot and delectable things Francis and he could do to each other, once they made it to the Sanctum Sanctorum of their stateroom. His excitement was building almost to fever-pitch. He thought about suggesting to Francis they simply cut the engine, drift, and see where their hormones led them – but – the thought of making love in a Real Bed was an even greater temptation, and shifting uncomfortably on the hard bench he gritted his teeth and TRIED to be patient.

Climbing the ladder was made more difficult by Francis' tongue and teeth on his ass – his playful hiss of remonstration had only made Francis grin up at him and say, "You don't REALLY want me to stop, do you?" Michael had given him a giggle and hurried his pace, knowing Francis would match him. By the time they swung up on deck they were both laughing and shushing each other.

The others had been back well over an hour. Michael was sure they were asleep by now. Francis took him by his hand and lead him below, pausing every now and then to press him up against some convenient bulkhead and kiss him hard – it was getting very difficult to walk, and Michael was starting to not care whether they had any hand lotion in the stateroom or not – but then Francis broke away in the lower hallway and gave him a little push, smiling.

"Be right back," he whispered. "Need to visit the head."

Michael pouted, sticking out his lower lip. With an affectionate smile Francis grasped it lightly with his thumb and forefinger and gave it a little squeeze, then turned and went back to the bathroom. Sighing resignedly, Michael headed back down the dark little hallway to their stateroom at the end.

As he passed the big door on his right, he realized with a shock it was open. That wasn't their room, it couldn't be – he gave a quick glance inside, then scuttled past with a horrified, stifled gasp. He felt like covering his eyes with his hands, but it was Too Late – what he'd seen was burned on the insides of his eyelids as though it had been branded there.

Two long, sinuous, graceful bodies, golden hair, shapely limbs and languid fingers, white radiant skin with the bloom of heat still on it. Éowyn, face-down, her head resting on her folded arms, Legolas straddling her, a pen in one hand, drawing something on the back of her bare shoulder. Both nude, sated, cavalier, roguish. The curve of buttocks, the bunch and play of moving muscle, the light scent of citrus and rosemary.

Michael bolted into their stateroom and shut the door, leaning against it, breathing hard. No, no, NO, he told himself. Don't think about it don't think about it oh damn damn DAMN, NOW how was he going to get that picture out of his head? The sight of a beautiful naked woman was aesthetically pleasing, true enough – even Michael admitted that – but the memory of Legolas' lean sinewy form, luminous skin and shimmering hair, the crescent-curve from shoulder to knee – Michael swallowed, remembered that Francis would be coming down that passageway in a moment and surely see them too. THAT wasn't something Michael wanted – how could he compete with THAT? Francis would take one look at his Ex and have his mind full of the long taut stomach and silky hair, and Michael would be DAMNED if he'd let Francis make love to him with THAT in mind.

He opened the door, prepared to rush out and close Legolas' and Éowyn's stateroom door (what were they THINKING, anyway, leaving it open like that?), but realized he was too late – Francis was standing in the hallway, one hand resting on the jamb of Legolas' door, looking into the darkness and smiling wistfully.

Michael felt his stomach drop. He couldn't see into the other stateroom, but he could see Francis' profile. He'd removed his loose linen shirt and stood clad only in his swim trunks, watching unashamedly as the couple inside enjoyed their afterglow. Then he seemed to hear something inside, and respond. Michael listened hard – the thumping of his heart was making it very hard to hear – he could hear a voice, light but indistinguishable. Francis cocked his head and murmured a reply. Then there was a flickering white light, and Legolas came to the door.

He stood, naked, his long pale hair streaming down over his shoulders, seeming unconcerned about his unclad state. He and Francis exchanged a few bantering phrases, then Legolas grinned, swatted Francis playfully on the head, and went back into his room, closing the door behind him. Still smiling, Francis turned back to his stateroom.

Michael dashed back to the bed, not wanting Francis to know he'd seen. He'd SEEN. There his boyfriend had stood, gazing dreamily at his former lover, standing with him while he'd been NAKED, and NOW he was going to come in here and try to make love to Michael while thinking of THAT?

HELL NO!

His stomach twisted into a huge knot, and he felt like throwing up. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding, thumping painfully against his chest, and he was Angry – angry at Legolas for teasing Francis. Angry at Francis for looking at Legolas and wanting to sleep with him, angry at himself for being so jealous – he couldn't help it – he WAS jealous!

Francis walked in, gently shut the door behind him, and turned to the bed, still with an absent smile on his face. Michael reflected that he must look Really Upset, because his lover picked up on it immediately. The smile faded, and he looked at Michael in surprise.

"What's wrong, darling?" he asked, throwing his linen shirt in a little pile on the floor.

Michael took a deep breath. He would NOT cry. He would NOT scream. He would calmly explain his feelings to Francis and make Francis GROVEL for forgiveness.

"If you have to ask, I’m not going to tell you," he heard himself say. He nearly slapped himself in frustration – where the hell had THAT come from? And with such a petulant whine, too! No wonder Francis was giving him That Look, the one that meant I Have No Idea What You're Talking About And I Don't Really Want To Deal With It Right Now. He held his breath, waiting for Cold and Unfeeling Francis to reappear, but instead his lover walked slowly over to the bed, his eyes thoughtful.

"You're jealous," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Michael bit his lip and felt the sting of tears prick at his eyes – don't cry – don't cry, dammit! "You saw me looking in, didn't you?"

"I – " Michael's voice nearly broke, but he gritted his teeth, willing the weak and inconsequential tears away. They were ineffective on Francis anyway, and only made him colder. "You – you're – still – attracted – to your Ex," he accused, his hands clenching and unclenching on his lap. His breath was coming fast like he'd been running, and his heart felt as though it were very heavy. Francis raised his eyebrows in resignation, and with a sigh sat on the bed.

"No, not attracted," he said, laying one long brown hand on Michael's leg. He flinched but didn't move away, at once resenting and craving Francis' touch. "Just – regretful, I suppose." He smiled absently, his eyes on the floor. "I was such a sonofabitch."

"Don't SAY that," said Michael desperately. He didn’t want to hear about Francis' ability to be a sonofabitch. It was too frightening. But Francis sighed again and said,

"No – I was, I admit it. But Michael – " He turned around, his pale eyes boring into Michael's, intense, focused, present. "That was a long time ago – I was a different person." He reached up, touched Michael's cheek. "It's over," he said.

"But you still find him attractive," blurted Michael, his eyes finally glassing over. He blinked rapidly. "I don't blame you – Legolas is very Decorative – "

Francis froze, his eyes widening, then to Michael's consternation he began to laugh – not a short, bitter laugh, or an apologetic, diffident laugh, but a big belly-laugh, that seemed to start at his toes and ripple out of his mouth, filling the room and throwing Michael into a bigger State of Confusion than he was before. Angrily he said, hands balled into fists, "Stop laughing at me – " but then Francis pounced on him, flattening him on the bed beneath his body, still laughing, warm and vibrant over him, holding him down, his hands spreading Michael's arms over his head, and his hips nestled between Michael's legs. Michael squirmed, trying to get away from him – he was in no mood to be distracted – but Francis kissed him, a breathless, happy kiss, and continued to laugh as he spoke.

"You thought – Legolas – was my Ex?" he said. Tears were starting to roll down his cheeks. "LEGOLAS? You – thought LEGOLAS -- ?" He dropped his forehead to Michael's collarbone, giggling madly. "Legolas – Mr. Straight-As-An-Arrow, Aggressively Heterosexual Legolas?"

"I – yes," admitted Michael, suddenly mollified. If Legolas were straight – and NOT Francis' Ex – then there was really nothing to worry about – and here he'd wasted all that jealousy on a misunderstanding. "But – you said – you liked blonds – when we were talking about your Ex – "

"Oh, lord have mercy," chuckled Francis. He drew his hands down the insides of Michael's arms, and the tickling made Michael twitch. But Francis' hands traveled further down, down his side, the long fingers hesitating on his nipples and making him twitch again, finally resting on Michael's slim hips. Michael felt him grip his pelvic bones, felt him nudge his balls, and realized Francis was still aroused. Despite himself he felt an answering thrill within him, and lowered his arms to wrap them around Francis' shoulders, still heaving with mirth.

Wait – if Legolas wasn't Francis' Ex – and the blond comment – directed at Legolas –

Oh, shit –

"Éowyn?" squeaked Michael, appalled. "You were with a WOMAN?"

Francis raised his head, regarded Michael with twinkling eyes. "Well, I TOLD you I came out of the closet late," he said, and rotated his hips. Michael gasped. That made sparkles bloom in front of his eyes, and the burgeoning fire was making it very difficult to concentrate. "I'm sorry, darling – I assumed someone else had told you. I thought you knew." He moved his hips again, and Michael damned his mutinous body for responding – though it did feel awfully good –

"Éowyn?" he repeated, still having a difficult time with the concept. "You were with HER?"

"Yes," murmured Francis. He had stopped laughing, but as he was currently engaged in nibbling a line from Michael's sternum to his collarbone, Michael didn't really notice. "Didn't work – this is – much better – "

"Oh … " Michael discovered to his amazement that his eyes were closed. He could feel Francis move, could feel his mouth exploring, tasting, working its way downward. Suddenly the staggering discovery that his lover had been with a woman wasn't that important. Hell, the fact that his lover's former lover was next door wasn't that important, either. What was REALLY important, Michael admitted lazily, was the trail of that warm tongue – the line of saliva cooling on his skin, bringing him out in goosebumps – yes, that felt quite nice – He opened his eyes, looking sluggishly around the room, gave a gasp when he felt Francis bite him – ever so lightly – right there – he groaned, and Francis chuckled against his thigh –

There was a white, upright bottle on the bedside table. Idly Michael studied it, recognizing that its shape was familiar, but not registering at first what it was – then, to his gratified amazement, he saw the blue letters "KY" emblazoned on the front, and realizing neither he nor Francis had put it there, began to laugh as well. Then came the warm engulfing as Francis swallowed him, and he couldn't think about anything for a while.

 

 


	23. The Dreamer

  1. **The Dreamer**



 

 

 

Bright yellow sunlight filled the stateroom, swaying and wobbling across the walls as the boat rocked in the water. There was a subtle clicking noise from a loose drawer pull, ticking arrhythmically with the movement. Michael rubbed his eyes and stretched. He felt well, hale, rested, strong. Even the galling uncertainty of his days seemed to have receded, and his mind was clear now.

He had woken from a dream in which Éowyn and Éomer were trying to teach him how to ride a horse. He could even feel the smooth leather of the saddle beneath his hand, warmed by the sun, could smell the sweet musky scent of the horse, hear its heavy breath, its irritable whicker. "Ready, one, two, three," Éowyn was saying, her hands on his waist. He had one booted foot in the stirrup, and was hanging on to the saddle horn, trying to pull himself up. He could see Éomer holding the horse's head, grinning at him. "Don't pull his mane," Éomer cautioned, and just as he pushed up with his foot to mount the horse in his dream, his leg actually twitched in his sleep, waking him.

He looked over at the little clock that was screwed to the wall. He had slept long – it was already after nine. But he couldn't remember having slept so deeply, with no interruptions, in weeks. The mattress was comfortable, the sheets downy-soft, even the pillow was perfect – solid foam rubber, Michael's favorite kind – so he lay there, drowsing, contented in his torpor, listening to the thump and squeak of footsteps above him, and the swish of the surf, the cry of the gull, the low muffled voices of his friends, drifting upon a fresh briny breeze through the open porthole.

He leafed randomly through his thoughts and recent memories, looking half-heartedly for the reason behind his quietly euphoric state. What had happened in the past twenty-four hours to raise him from his former apprehensive and discontented outlook? He sorted through the events of yesterday: Doris and Gimli's engagement, the arrival of the _White Lady_ , meeting Éomer, Lottie, and Éowyn, the gathering around the bonfire, and – he smiled and bit his lip – breaking a three-week hiatus in his sex life – wouldn't that cheer anyone up? And he'd learned a lot too – Gimli wasn't human – Éowyn was an assassin – everyone thought he was brave – that made him smile again – and Francis had been married to a woman, and that woman was now Legolas' wife.

He mulled over that for a while, lazily exploring his reactions. Why did this bother him less than what he'd assumed before, that Legolas and Francis had been lovers? Well – the obvious answer, he supposed, was that with Legolas as Francis' Ex, there was always that possibility Francis still looked after and desired Legolas (who could blame him?), but since Francis was obviously gay, nothing Éowyn could do would draw him away from Michael's side.

Did it bother him that Francis had been married to a woman? Michael thought about this as hard as he could, considering his rather soporific state, and came to the conclusion that no, it didn't. He actually felt kind of sorry for Éowyn. This was no great stretch for him, as he was in the enviable position of the Possessor of the Alpha in question. It was easy to be pitying and condescending in his case – he had "won," he had Francis, and Éowyn didn't.

He personally couldn't imagine trying to be married to a woman, and supposed Francis and Éowyn had only made each other miserable, until Francis had finally come out of the closet. What a difficult decision that must have been for him – to completely alter his personal life like that! And how mortifying that must've been for Éowyn, too – Michael gave a sympathetic shiver – she must have somehow felt it was partly her fault, that she wasn't Woman enough to keep him. Suddenly Michael wanted to rush topside and tell her that it wasn't her fault Francis was gay, and it didn't reflect on her feminine attractions in the slightest. Because, of course, it didn't – Doris had been right – Éowyn was STUNNING.

Michael thought Arwen was flawlessly lovely, remote, austere. Lottie was pretty and perky and cute and childish, but Éowyn was so blatantly, sexually, sensually, opulently magnificent she nearly dazzled him. Perhaps it was the overlaid vision he had of her, golden and shining, drifting weightlessly, starry eyes alight in the presence of the Valar. He didn't know, and it didn't really matter anyway. The secret grudge he'd nursed against her had dissolved, and all that was left was a sort of patient and bewildered admiration.

He sat up, wincing a bit as he did so – KY or not, three weeks was a long time – and looked around indifferently for his clothes. He spied his swim trunks, inside-out on the floor where Francis had flung them, and crawled out of bed, picked them up, and pulled them on. They were still sandy and gritty, but Michael didn't really care. He was planning on going swimming later, anyway.

He straightened his hair in the big Art Deco mirror, thinking a little regretfully to himself that it was a shame his life couldn't always be like this: subtle luxury, no financial worries or social concerns, days filled with choices between snorkeling or sunbathing, as opposed to work or poverty. A shame Dr. Ahn had to ruin everything by simply existing, his obnoxious plans forcing them to abandon their island paradise – just when Michael was developing a taste for rock lobster and Painkillers, too – to pursue him all the way up the coast, put a stop to his nefarious plotting, and then … well, then what?

Michael paused, looking round the somewhat Spartan room thoughtfully. Would he and Francis simply go home after that? It seemed so anticlimactic somehow. He hoped they, like Gimli and Doris, would take a year off too, sailing, swimming, shopping, relaxing … odd that he'd never wondered whether Francis could afford it. Odd that he'd never questioned how much money Francis made as a computer programmer, able to afford a nice condo and a Lexus. Odd that he'd never asked Francis about his family. But those sharp, sidelong looks, the Not-Discussed categories, had pushed Michael into a state of fearing to ask, and now that it seemed Francis wouldn't mind telling, suddenly Michael didn't care anymore.

What if Francis was an alien? Oh, well … at least he was good in bed. What if he didn't need to work, was independently wealthy? Michael snorted. Like he'd complain about THAT! And besides, it would explain the clothes, the car, the expensive restaurants, the _carte blanche_ Francis had given him while redoing his décor. What if Francis was part of some anti-government subversive group of weirdoes running around the world righting Wrongs? Well, what of it? Michael shrugged to himself. He'd already decided which side of the fence he was riding – Francis' side, for good or ill – and if it happened to be on the far side of the U.S. Government, Michael would be right there with him. Like most gay Americans, Michael had no especial love for the predominantly conservative government over them. If there were some way he could exact some niggling revenge (without personal risk, of course), he was all for it. Giving the sheets a perfunctory smoothing and throwing the heavy white bedspread over them, Michael left the stateroom and headed up to the deck.

The sun was very bright, and Michael squinted, wondering where he'd left his sunglasses. Oh yes, in the cockpit yesterday, when Éomer had been enthusiastically showing him their computer-controlled navigation system – easier than reading paper charts, anyway – he looked around the deck, expecting to see at least one or two people about, but it appeared deserted. He headed to the cockpit, stepped down to the tinted door, and went in.

Aragorn was sitting there, rope-soled shoes propped up on the desk, frowning at the slim black laptop perched on his knees. He glanced up at Michael when he entered and gave a quick smile. " 'Bout time you rolled out of bed," he said easily, giving the keyboard a couple of taps. "Éowyn's been looking for you."

"She has?" Yesterday that would have worried him, paranoid as he'd been over her potential reaction to his attraction to her husband. Today, though, all his nagging fears seemed to have receded, become inconsequential, leaving him with a sort of pink-cushioned, blissful contentment. He spied his sunglasses, sitting where he'd left them next to the radio. He leaned over Aragorn and picked them up. "Where is everyone?"

"Legolas and Faramir took the dinghies to the island to pick everyone up," said Aragorn absently, frowning at whatever he was reading on the computer. "Arwen's around somewhere, probably up in the rigging or something."

"Is there anything for breakfast?" asked Michael. He supposed he could be curious about what Aragorn was doing, but for some reason his inquisitiveness was at a low point – most likely saturated by everything he'd learned the day before. At the moment, his greatest concern was his empty stomach.

"Bagels and cream cheese in the mess," said Aragorn. "And coffee."

"Good. I'm hungry," said Michael, turning toward the door. He was about to ask Aragorn if he wanted a cup of coffee, but Aragorn preempted him.

"After the workout Faramir gave you last night, I'm not surprised."

Michael felt his face grow hot. His heart skittered to a stop. He turned slowly, eyes wide, wondering what Aragorn had meant, saying something like that in his dry, clinical voice, his Doctor Walker voice. Was it Disapproval? Disgust? Censure? But Aragorn just considered Michael gravely, only the suggestion of a twinkle in his eye betraying him. Michael opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. What could he say in response to that, anyway? It was mortifying enough to think that everyone might have heard them.

"Need anything? Ice pack, soft cushion, Preparation H?"

Now the corner of Aragorn's mouth was twitching, and Michael's heart slowed. This didn't sound as though Aragorn were offended or shocked at all. He was teasing Michael. Deciding to carry it back into enemy territory, Michael retorted boldly:

"No, thank you, though you might want to check that hickie on your collarbone." He pointed to the gap in Aragorn's collar, through which a patch of discolored skin peeped through. Aragorn grinned, and Michael, smiling self-consciously, went back out on deck, then down to the mess.

He toasted himself a bagel, spread it liberally with cream cheese, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He poked around a minute, hunting out sugar and creamer, and found to his gratification raw sugar and whole milk, which he stirred in to the strong and slightly bitter brew. He took everything topside and sat in a deck chair with a satisfied sigh. He could get used to this.

While he ate and drank, he watched the little puffs of white cloud hurrying across the blue dome above them, watched pelicans and terns and seagulls being tossed and buffeted by the stiff breeze, listened to the swish and clank of the rigging and the water on the hull. The _White Lady_ was not much like the _Semi-Impermeable_ , for which Michael was extremely thankful. It was big, and luxurious, and well-appointed, and comfortable, and above all safe – Michael felt that sailing up the coast in the _Semi-Impermeable_ would've been pushing their luck, but he had no such qualms about the _White Lady_. He felt very grateful for Legolas, who had purchased it, and for Éomer, Éowyn, and Lottie, who had brought it here. And he felt grateful for whomever had supplied thick chewy bagels and fattening velvety cream cheese and pungent smooth coffee, and for their foresight in providing them not with plain white sugar and powdered creamer, but tasty raw cane sugar and real milk. The Little Debbie snack cakes and beef jerky seemed a thing of the past, for which he was profoundly appreciative.

He finished his breakfast in the pleasant silence, pausing every now and then to savor the sweet bite of his coffee, or the scent of the light cool breeze, or the feel of the warm sunshine on his skin. Then, his aesthetic senses humming pleasantly, he brushed the crumbs off his lap, threw a leftover chunk of bagel to an impatiently waiting sea gull, and went back to his cabin.

He found a new toothbrush and some toothpaste and went to the head. It was a lot larger than he'd expected, and he remembered that it was one of two on board – four staterooms, two bathrooms – compared to the _Semi_ - _Impermeable,_ it was as though he were living in rank luxury. He took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, and put on a fresh pair of swimming trunks he'd found in the dresser of their stateroom – lavender and pale yellow; he felt like an Easter egg – hung up his towel, re-straightened the bed – whether Perfection were Required by his Alpha or not, he would rather the bed didn't look a rumpled mess. It SO disharmonized with the clean white lines of the room – and padded up the stairs to the deck.

He looked around a moment. He could see Arwen, perched in the rigging high above him. The sun reflected off her pale skin and slick glossy hair, and he could hear the faint ululation of her voice over the breeze whistling through the sheets. When he looked to the stern, he saw a tall white figure topped with restless gold – Éowyn, standing wrapped in a gauzy white robe, her gleaming curls tossed and tumbled in the wind, looking out over the ocean, motionless. Remembering that Aragorn had said she'd wanted to speak to him, he walked over to her, the soles of his feet flinching slightly at the sun-heated deck boards.

Her face in profile was abstract, thoughtful. Those silvery-gray eyes kindled from within, and her full red lips were parted a little over her white teeth. Michael waited for her to acknowledge him – was she Listening, the way her husband Listened? – and occupied himself with admiring her proud carriage, the long slender neck where it met her collarbones, the tawny curls shifting around her shoulders, the glint of gold at her cheekbones from the big hoop earrings she wore.

After a moment she said quietly, in her deep soft voice: "Do you know what Yavanna calls you?"

Michael's heart skipped. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Why should any of the Valar care what his name was anyway? And why should they bother re-naming him? What was wrong with "Michael"? But then he remembered that Manwë had referred to Legolas as "Beloved Listener," and Legolas had called Éowyn "My Heartbeat." He supposed it was like some Top-Secret Astral Code.

"What?" he asked. He was surprised to find he was whispering.

"The Dreamer."

Éowyn turned to him and blinked slowly. When her eyes opened they had lost their ethereal glow and had sharpened, so that he felt pinned by her gaze, helpless and immobile. He swallowed, fighting the urge to drop his eyes. He could well imagine how unhappy she and Francis had been together. She seemed to him steel-girt, rigid, cold, but housing hot fire within that could either burn or excite. There was nothing of the Shrinking Violet in THIS woman. And had Francis ever attempted to exercise some sort of Alpha-control over her, he knew exactly how she'd respond: to curl up, armadillo-like, hiding that fire within and showing only the impenetrable icy shell. And the more Francis would hammer at that shell demanding entrance, the tighter she'd wind herself, the hot fire dying into a sullen coal, the twisted posture fixed and unmoving.

"Yes," she said, her eyes sad, though that wide sweet mouth smiled. "We were very unhappy at the end."

"How do you DO that?" asked Michael irritably, turning to the rail and looking down into the water. He could see little fish down there, clustering round the rudder, flashing silver in the sunlight. "Between you and Legolas, I'm not going to be allowed to have a private thought ever AGAIN."

"Oh, you will," said Éowyn, and to his surprise she slipped her hand around the crook in his elbow. Her fingers were strong and warm. "My Lady said this wouldn't last forever. Right now your mind is open to us, and invites us in. You can also see a little of the future." She smiled, her eyes warm. "Oromë likes you. So does Elbereth." At Michael's bewildered look she said, "Well, you must know, Michael, you're very easy to like. You accept people the way they are, and when you don't have anything to say, you don't say anything. Those are two very rare qualities in a Mortal."

Michael felt as though she'd slipped a long, sharp icicle into his heart. He didn't really want to discuss his Mortality – it had a final, door-closing feel to it that forced him to confront his upcoming Death. And why should he die, just when life was becoming so sweet?

"Will Ossë really get me?" he asked, his voice sounding very small and scared in his ears. He felt her fingers tighten around his arm.

"Yavanna's talking to him," she said gently, looking down at him and smiling, comforting, soothing. "Their demesnes skirt each other, and my Lady's bounty extends even to Ossë's deeps. They don't always get along, but they seem to understand each other."

Michael considered this. "And no matter what I do, if he wants me dead, he can get me, even when I'm on shore," he said thoughtfully, staring down into the murky water. "He even comes at me in my dreams." He bit his lip. "Should I tell Francis any of this?" he asked, turning back to her, his eyebrows puckered. "Legolas said I shouldn't, but I think he needs to know."

"Yes, Legolas and I have already argued about that," said Éowyn dryly, looking out over the water, an errant curl waving round her white forehead. "He's so concerned about Faramir's position amongst us that he doesn't want to rock the boat – but keeping something this important from him is only going to make him that much angrier when he eventually finds out." She looked down at him, frowning a little. "I'd tell him," she said. "Yes, even though Legolas told you not to. You don't HAVE to do everything he says, you know," she added, her eyes twinkling.

"Do YOU?" asked Michael abruptly, wondering why he was being so bold, and if the question would make her angry. But she threw her head back and laughed, a rich, throaty laugh, and squeezed his arm again.

"When I know his orders are coming from Manwë, sure," she admitted, grinning and tucking the curl behind her ear. "But not when he's being bloody-minded. I just tell him to go fuck himself, and then I go do what I want."

Michael thought about that, thought about what Francis would do if Michael responded to him that way. He didn't think the reaction would be very pleasant. But he could well imagine what Legolas would say, if Michael dared to respond to him with a sarcastic comment or an argument. He could just see the lively eyes sparkle with mirth, the rosebud mouth stretch into a delighted grin, dimples flashing, could even hear his satisfied belly-laugh at such audacity. No wonder Legolas was constantly pushing people. He WANTED a response, WANTED to see that people were paying attention to him, WANTED to goad people into thinking for themselves and getting off their duffs so that they would DO something.  

"I bet Legolas likes it when you stand up to him," he said.

"He does," said Éowyn with a soft, reminiscent smile. "He spent twenty-four hours awakening my Inner Bitch, and revels when I lose my temper."

Unbidden to Michael's mind came the image of Legolas rolling the Iron Armadillo over, struggling to uncurl it and release the flames within, then laughing when the fire shot up, not burning him, but igniting him instead. "Yes," he said. "I can see that."

They were quiet a few minutes more, but it was the comfortable quiet Michael was starting to recognize that he shared with Legolas. Éowyn wasn't a difficult person to get along with after all, once you figured her out, he thought. Despite the fact Legolas and Éowyn had that weird Spiritual Awareness about them, they seemed also to engender a gentle trust, which Michael found hauntingly attractive, and weirdly comforting at the same time.

After about ten minutes Michael asked, "Are you an Alien too, like Legolas and Arwen?"

Éowyn laughed again. "No, Michael," she said, leaning her elbows on the railing. "I'm just as human as you are."

"Oh," said Michael. That made him feel a little better. "Aragorn said you wanted to talk to me."

"Yes," said Éowyn carelessly. "I need to teach you how to use a handgun."

Michael gulped and stared at her. She turned to him calmly, one eyebrow raised.

"It's not just Ossë you have to fear," she pointed out reasonably, patting his cheek. "Yavanna and Oromë are worried about you, and they told me you need to know how to defend yourself." She pushed herself off the railing and started toward the biminy, the gauzy white robe whipping round her long golden legs and catching up into the breeze.

When he hesitated, wondering what Francis would think when he returned to find Michael holding a gun, she only grinned at him and gestured him forward. "Come along, Dreamer," she said, gently teasing. The wind rippled her white robe and cast up her hair like a halo, and against the bright blue sky she seemed to Michael to be some sort of primitive priestess, choosing her next acolyte – or victim. "I may not do everything Legolas tells me, but I sure as hell obey my Lady."

There wasn't much Michael could say to dispute that, so he nodded and agreed, hoping Francis wouldn't be angry, and wondering how on earth he was going to explain his dreams to him.


	24. Echoes of the Past

  1. **Echoes of the Past**



 

 

To Michael's surprise, Francis didn't seem overly concerned that he was learning how to use a handgun. When he had returned in the dinghy with Éomer, Lottie, Gimli and Doris, and Éowyn had announced she and Michael would be going to the Island to work on ballistics instruction, Francis had merely raised one eyebrow and nodded slowly. "Yes," he'd said, his voice reflective. "I can see where that might help."

And when, on shore a half hour later, Michael had tremblingly approached Legolas and said with forced bravado that he wanted to tell Francis about his dreams, Legolas had only shrugged and said casually, "Ah, no worries, mate, already told 'im. Me acushla changed me mind – bloody persuasive little bit, isn't she?" Then Michael realized why Francis had been so agreeable about the gun. Compared with Inner Visions about Impending Death, learning the ins and outs of a Glock .45 was very small shakes indeed.

When the sun was setting in blue-black clouds tinged with vermilion, and the dark waves broke in shimmering foam on the sand, Gandalf herded Éowyn, Legolas, and Michael into the remaining dinghy and brought them back to the White Lady, where everyone had congregated for dinner. Michael felt rather comfortable with the handguns by then, both the Glock and the smaller .22 with which Éowyn had started him. With Legolas and Gandalf's help they had set up a small shooting range by the larger chikki hut, and Michael found, to his shock and gratification, that whatever chunk of his brain controlled his unerring ability to find his way when others were lost, also governed his capability to aim a bullet at whatever target he chose, so that by the end of the day he'd developed an astonishing knack for hitting the bulls-eye at nearly every turn.

He also learned about gun safety, the parts of the gun, how to check to see if it were loaded, how to load and unload it safely, and how to use the safety catch. But most of all he learned to not be so afraid of the noise of the gun – he still had secret tremors, remembering the sound of the gunfire in the Metal Building – but the continuous pop, pop, pop of the .22, and the boom, boom, boom of the Glock eventually numbed him to it, and he basked in Éowyn's compliments, and Legolas' appreciative exclamations, and Gandalf's pleased chuckles.

But far and away the best part of the whole process was the look on Francis' face – admiring, proud, almost gloating – when Éowyn had told him, in front of everyone, how well Michael had done, saying he was "a born marksman" and that she'd never taught anyone who'd picked it up as quickly as he had. Michael had blushed furiously, staring at his feet, but drank in Francis' approval nonetheless – it was something, after all, to have a little bit of ability in you, to balance out the cavernous inequity Michael felt between himself and the rest of this group – competent, capable people, a little cold-hearted. The memory of the jump of the gun in his hands as he squeezed the trigger, the realization he'd hit the bulls-eye AGAIN, Éowyn's pleased compliments – Michael might never be Manly, but it helped to have at least a few Manly bits about him, interior designer that he was. He was feeling so Manly by dinner that the hamburgers were a double thrill – Red Meat! – and having missed lunch, ate two of them, with jalapeños, just to encourage the production of testosterone.

 

 

Surprise was in the air that evening. Francis took him to bed without a comment concerning his Dreams and Visions, and made love to him with such tender attention Michael wondered where his Alpha had gone. Later in the dark, watching his lover sleep in the watery blue-black of the cabin, Michael speculated if Francis were looking ahead to the day when Michael would no longer be with him, and treating him with extra care in the same way one handles a terminal cancer patient in his final days.

He wanted to wake Francis, to tell him not to treat him any differently despite the fact Ossë wanted him dead, to beg him to let him live out the rest of his life as normally as possible – but – there were dark sad circles under Francis' eyes that had not been there before, and Michael, not knowing whether they were engendered by weariness or sorrow, did not like to disturb his slumber. So he sat beside Francis instead, drinking in the sight his lover made in the gloom, the planes of his face vaguely illuminated by the running light outside their portholes, softly stroking the silky black hair beneath his fingers, and thinking about Death. Of course, Michael didn't have a very long attention span, so his thoughts went only from regret to anger to resignation before he gave up, lay down, and went to sleep.

He was not surprised when his dream took him someplace he didn't want to go. But it was strange, nonetheless, to stand in his parents' house with Francis at his side, introducing him to his grandfather, who had been dead for seven years.

"This is my boyfriend, Francis," he was saying, and Francis bent down, smiling politely, his dark hair smoothed back, his tailored suit immaculate.

"Nice lookin' fella," said Grandpa, winking at Michael. "How'd you like Hawaii? Always wanted to take your Grandma there but we could never afford it." Then the old wrinkled face rotted away, leaving nothing but a dried skull.

Francis was still shaking the skeleton's hand, clad in its tattered grave clothes. "We'll have to bring you with us next time," Francis was saying amicably. "There's a charming inn at Bree. I'm sure you'd love it." Then they were standing together in the woods, and Francis' suit had become jeans and a flannel shirt, and he was wearing a backpack. "If we don't dilly-dally, we'll make it to Henneth Annun by nightfall," said Francis, and turned away. He hiked resolutely up the hill.

Michael wanted to follow, but his feet wouldn't budge. When he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, he turned. A man stood there, dressed in strange dirty clothes, and he had sticks poking out of his torso at odd angles. Blood was seeping round the ends of the sticks where they jutted into his body. Michael looked closely at him. He seemed very familiar – the dark sleek hair, noble nose, square jaw, pale eyes. The man smiled at him, and he smiled back.

"Have you seen my brother?" the man asked, frothy blood spilling from his lips. "I'm looking for my brother." Then his face changed, twisted in pain. He clutched at his stomach and toppled over. Michael knelt to help him, but froze when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"It's no use, Dreamer," said Aragorn sadly, gazing down at the dead man with tears in his eyes. "At least he redeemed himself before the end." And he picked up what looked like a cow's horn decorated with silver, but it fell into two pieces in his gauntleted hands.

Michael turned to find Francis, but when he looked up the slope of the hill all he saw was a grey stone wall, high, high above the earth, looking down into a deep shadowy valley with a meandering river running through it. Across the valley was a tall barrier of dark mountains that seemed to breathe evil from their very slopes. He turned around to ask Aragorn what made the mountains so evil, but only saw Legolas standing with Arwen. They were both dressed in black, and Arwen had been crying. She had a thin black veil obscuring her beautiful hair and ears, but Legolas was bare-headed, his golden hair shining in the roiling dim.

"What will you do?" Arwen asked. Her voice was tremulous, broken. Her glorious eyes were rimmed with red. But when Legolas answered her, his voice was tight and angry.

"First Éowyn, then Faramir, now Aragorn," he said, his long white hands balling into fists. "Gimli and I shall go into the West. And should Ulmo take our lives, I care not. I am done with weeping."

There was a rumble of thunder and Michael looked back at the mountains. But they had gone, and in their place was the mountainside. Lying in the leaf-strewn loam was the dead man, his face white and fixed, dried blood on his lips.

"I don't know where your brother is," said Michael desperately, shaking him as though he were sleeping. "I can't find him!"

"If his brother were half the man Boromir had been, Boromir wouldn't have died," said a harsh voice behind him.

Michael spun around. His grandfather was standing there, but in place of his normally kindly expression the face was grim and cruel. "If Boromir has to die, then so does Faramir."

"No!" cried Michael. He tried to throw himself at the old man, to beat him, but he was too slow. No matter how hard he tried to urge his sluggish limbs to life he couldn't catch up with the retreating form. "It's not his fault! Don't kill him!" Then Gandalf struck the old man on the head with a long white stick. Blood spurted from his wound.

"Poor old man," sighed Gandalf, looking down at the prone form beneath him. "I hate killing patriots." Then he turned and looked at Michael, black eyes twinkling. He was wearing a dirty leather jacket and blue jeans. "Well," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm off to kill Faramir now. Wish me luck." But instead of Francis, it was Legolas Gandalf killed, striking him down with a bang and a flash of light.

Michael wanted to scream, wanted to wake up. But the woman standing at his shoulder wouldn't let him.

"What has passed has occurred for a purpose," she said, and when Michael turned to look at her, he fell to his knees. This was no ordinary woman. She was immense, lovely, terrible, beautiful. He could feel the overwhelming sense of her presence beating down upon his head and she terrified him. "Sorrow begets compassion, and compassion a forestalling of sorrow." She gestured with her long white arms to Ossë, who stood seething and hissing behind the bars she had erected. "Shall we loose him?" she asked, smiling down at him, and Michael, to his surprise, said, "Yes." Then Ossë rushed at him, and Michael woke with a gasp.

Head spinning, he looked wildly around the stateroom, desperately trying to ground himself, to bring himself back to reality, away from the horrible dream-world that had sucked him down. His visions swirled around in his head – the dead man, spitting blood. Arwen weeping, Legolas leaving. Gandalf killing and Ossë loosed. Michael got restlessly up, careful not to wake Francis, and looked out the far port hole.

The sun was just pinking the lower edge of the purple sky, casting a rosy glow over the long low clouds that hovered breathlessly above the horizon. He could see the far edge of Norman Island, a black curve against the lightening dome, spiked with palm fronds. A white pelican glided past, wrinkled eyes indifferent, soaring on its snowy pinions. It was so calm, so quiet … Michael still felt a little muzzy with sleep, and thick-headed and confused from the dream. He needed some fresh air. Carefully he located his swimming trunks and a light sweatshirt, then noiselessly let himself out of the stateroom and padded up the stairs.

It was still chilly in the moist predawn, and the briny, fishy breeze ruffled his curls and spun goose bumps on his legs. He stretched, trying to push out the images crowding his brain, and looked around the deck, wondering if he were the first one up. An orange glow and the wispy scent of sweet pipe smoke drew him like a magnet to the stern. Aragorn looked over his shoulder as Michael approached him, and smiled around the stem of his pipe.

"Good morning," they both said together, and then they laughed a little. Michael padded up to him, chafing his arms to try to warm them. This was the coldest morning he'd had yet on the Caribbean.

He stood beside Aragorn, looking out over the glassy surging surface of the water that picked up the faintest echoes of pink and pale green from the lightening sky. A few stars glinted faintly in the lavender dome, and there was a violently white streak of cloud striping the edge of the horizon. A handful of gulls flew past it, black and squawking, and below them where the hull met the water there was the splash of a fish breaching.

"Cold this morning," said Michael, tucking his hands up in the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"Mm," said Aragorn around the stem of his pipe. It popped and he puffed out a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Summer's nearly over. We need to get a move on."

"Yes," said Michael, a little absently. He still felt a little groggy and disoriented from his dream. It was hard to concentrate on what Aragorn was saying.

He stared down into the water. It was like molten lead, like mercury released from a thermometer, heavy and torpid and dark, heaving and swelling beneath them. Somewhere, thought Michael absently, somewhere down in those depths Ossë dwelt, dark brooding murmuring Ossë, who so softly whispered words of cold comfort to him. Michael could almost see him, could see the rows of shark's teeth, the long writhing hair like seaweed, a medusa head surrounding a beautiful, merciless face in which bright red eyes glowed.

"Sleep," he seemed to purr in Michael's head, his voice low and soothing. Michael could not hear Aragorn over that soft sound. "Cool dark dreamless sleep, beneath the coverlet of my dominion." And Michael could see it, could see the murky green place, rolling sand-hills and deep black gorges filled with eyeless monstrosities, belching sea-vents spewing toxic chemicals up into towers that teemed with writhing crawling creatures, pale and bloated and spindly, huge mountains stippled with endless coral reefs, darting fish, brightly colored as rainbows, flashing and schooling, and overall the relentless heavy throb, the weight of millions of tons of water upon his head, crushing him, forcing him down. He would sink into the gravelly bed, his limbs weightless, his bones stiff and cold, until his skin was eaten away and his empty skeleton became a haven for small creatures to live. He would be but a memory, a brief flash of experience to them, whose lives spanned unnumbered ages, and Ossë would not rest with his demise, but seek out others to join him in his eternal slumber.

The shouting seemed so far away, and the hands that held him back were weak and inconsequential things. All Michael could see was that thick green gloom, swaying and rushing about him. But then there was a spark before him, a bright flash of light, hurrying up into his vision. He tried to look away but the light would not let him. Then he saw the face, angry, frightening, blinding him with its brightness, surrounded by a surging halo of flossy gold that rivaled the swaying kelp reefs themselves.

A sharp noise, a shocking sting. Michael started back, gasping. Legolas had slapped him.

He blinked and struggled back, realizing with horror he had climbed up onto the boat's railing and was trying to jump overboard. Two pairs of strong hands were holding him, pulling him back. He could feel hard men's chests against his shoulders and hip. Legolas was standing crouched on the rails in front of him, blocking his escape, his hands balled into fists. Michael remembered his dream, remembered Legolas' angry face, his decision to test Ulmo. "First Éowyn, then Faramir, now Aragorn," he had said.  How Legolas hated Death! And yet he cheated it, again and again. Ulmo had challenged him, and Legolas had won. But Michael could not win. Whatever Legolas was, Michael was not. Michael could not come back from the dead.

He went limp, falling back against whoever was holding him. They staggered but caught him, and lowered him to the deck. Legolas stared down at him, his blue eyes blazing, then leapt lightly off the railing to land crouching at Michael's feet, resting his fingertips on the smooth teak flooring. His pale hair fluttered down in a curtain about his shoulders, obscuring his pointed ears. He looked wound tight as a watch-spring, ready to leap at the slightest provocation from his prey. But Michael did not move. He was too frightened. Even in the Metal Building with his face half-blown off, Legolas had never looked more eerily Alien than he did at that moment.

Someone was yelling at him, someone who was lying behind and beneath him, still holding him in that restricting pinching grip. He could feel a beard against his cheek. But Legolas held up one long narrow hand, looking sharply at the man, and the voice faded.

"It wasn't him," he said. "It was Ossë." Still he stared hard at Michael, his eyes glowing neon-blue. The sweet pink cupids-bow lips curled up in a snarl. "Fuckin' Ossë," he whispered.

He thrust his head forward, like a snake approaching a terrified bird. His tongue flicked out, and Michael thought he could taste his fear on the air.

"Listen to him," Legolas hissed, creeping forward on all fours like a spider, his hair swinging round his face. "Listen to him whisper, cajole, entreat. Hear his voice purring and singing and murmuring." Michael pressed back against the men who held him, whimpering with fear. Legolas came closer, until his face was only inches from Michael's. He could smell the rich piney scent of the Alien's hair. "Liar," breathed Legolas. His eyes were nearly occluded by light now, and his voice was very soft. "All lies. Those who recline in his bed know only the sleep of Death."

"I know," stammered Michael. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut out the vision of Legolas' intruding face that burned away all the cool soothing images of deep green sleep. "I know."

"You do not belong there," whispered Legolas. One narrow hand reached up, long white fingers flexing. Michael jerked back, not wanting him to touch him. But Legolas laid his fingertips on Michael's cheek. They were searing, burning his cold skin with the heat of his touch. "You belong here, Dreamer. Your Dreams are Dreams of Waking and Living, not of Sleep and Death."

The heat from Legolas' hand spread through his cheek. It pushed away the cold torpor, and the darkness receded. Then Michael sat up with a gasp.

He was sitting on the deck of the _White Lady_ , and Aragorn and Éomer were holding him tight, one on each arm. Legolas squatted before him, the light in his blue eyes fading, but Michael could still feel the imprint of Legolas' palm on his cheek, and it stung and burned. Legolas touched him again, but this time, though Michael flinched, the touch was cool, soothing, stroking away the residual hurt. The wild angry eyes softened, and the sweet columbine mouth curved down in a sad frown.

"Oh, poor Dreamer," he murmured, caressing Michael's stinging cheek. In his face was the deep and heartbreaking compassion of one who knew the pull of hopeless despair. "Poor Michael."

Michael let out a harsh sob, and then Legolas had him in his arms, pressing him close against his chest. Michael could smell rosemary, and clean linen, and warm skin. Michael was shaking so hard he thought he would rattle Legolas' teeth out, but those strong warm arms held him so tight that he had the trembling squeezed right out of him.

When he'd managed to catch his breath, Legolas released him, and then it was Francis who held him, gathering him in his long dark arms, his lips against Michael's temple, tears wetting Michael's hair. Over the shuddering sound of Francis' breath and the thudding of his heart, Michael could hear Legolas speak.

"No, putting him on dry land will only make the visions worse. Once we're out in the open ocean, Ossë won't need dreams. But we'll be ready for him. Not like we can bloody well hide from him, after all."

"But what can we do?" Éomer's voice, tight and frightened. not a sound Michael associated with that big strong man. He was still kneeling behind Michael, still shielding him with that broad muscular body, ready to guard and protect him. Legolas looked thoughtfully at him.

" 'Do'?" he asked, and his mouth quirked into a wry smile. " 'Do'? Can't fuckin' 'do' anything, mate. Ossë's got his reasons, the bleeder. Just hope me lord manages to hold him back." He got to his feet, straightening his rather rumpled clothes. "If it was me or Whitey or even Éowyn, I'd be right with it," he said, his face changing. He seemed regretful. "Used to it, we are … why bloody Ossë's pickin' on our Dreamer's fuckin' anyone's guess."

Faramir took a deep breath. Michael could hear it shrilling in the back of his throat. "Why Michael?" he asked, his voice shaking. "Why my Michael? Why not one of Us?" Michael could hear the capital in the word too, and knew what it meant: Why not one of the Chosen? Why an Outsider? But Legolas' sharp look to Francis made him feel better.

"Get it through yer head, fuckwit," he said, turning to go. "Michael IS one of Us." He walked off to the biminy then, leaving the four men crumpled on the deck. Aragorn and Éomer stared incredulously after Legolas, then glanced back at Faramir and Michael, contemplative, cautious. Michael looked back at them over the curve of Francis' arm, knowing he was staring like a dying fish but unable to stop himself. He felt very weak and shaky after his ordeal. Éomer licked his lips nervously and said,

"Does that mean – that Michael won't – " He gave Aragorn a sidelong glance, and Aragorn gave a quick shake of his head that said, _Not here_. Biting his lip, Éomer stood, still looking down at Michael, his eyebrows puckered with thought. Aragorn got up too, and looked keenly from Michael to Francis.

"Bring Michael back to your stateroom and I'll give him a once-over," he said, his voice guarded and flat. "We can talk later." Giving Éomer one last cautioning glance he headed down the stairs, Éomer trailing him, leaving Michael folded in Francis' strong embrace. And just then, at that moment, Michael remembered what Francis had said – "My Michael " – and thought perhaps Francis really did love him, and that possibility so warmed him that even Ossë's looming visions of imminent death could not frighten him.


	25. Oiolossë

  1. **Oiolossë**



 

 

Michael sat up straight, legs crossed Indian-style beneath him, hands folded in his lap. Aragorn pressed the cold disc of the stethoscope against his skin, his nimble, competent doctor's hands under Michael's sweatshirt.

"Breathe in, deep breath," he said, his eyes abstracted, listening. Michael took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Again," said Aragorn, moving the disc. Michael breathed again. Then Aragorn climbed around the back of the bed and put the disc on Michael's back. And again, Michael breathed – deep breath in, deep breath out – and Aragorn pulled back, and took the earpieces out so that the stethoscope lay limp against his chest.

He had already looked in Michael's eyes and ears with an ophthalmoscope and an otoscope (Michael was a little surprised he had medical equipment on board, but wasn't complaining), and with Francis' help had taken his blood pressure – grimacing as he did so, muttering, "One eighty over one ten, too high … " Then, disdaining his instruments, he had poked and prodded and made incomprehensible little grunts under his breath, his brows drawn down into a V over his eyes.

Francis sat beside Michael on the bed, forehead furrowed, a concerned look on his face, but at last reached out and held Michael's hand firmly, imparting at least a little equanimity into the situation. Finally Aragorn sat back, and with a sigh began chucking his instrumentation back into the white First Aid box.

"Well?" asked Francis, his voice tighter than normal. Michael could tell he was anxious. Aragorn didn't speak for a moment, busying himself with his equipment, then when he stood up he took a deep breath, and looked not at Francis, but at Michael.

"You look fine," he said. "Your blood pressure and your pulse are a little elevated, but that's to be expected. Your color's good and your pupils are responsive. I don't think it's had any permanent _physical_ effect."

Michael raised his eyebrows. He had heard Aragorn's slight emphasis on the word "physical," and that made him wonder what he was implying.

"If you start – " he hesitated, casting about for an appropriate word " – dreaming – again, let me know – I'd like to monitor your physiological responses."

"I can't tell you," said Michael, a little irritably. "Most of the time I'm not even sure whether I'm dreaming or not, and usually I'm asleep."

" 'Usually'?" said Francis, tugging a little on his hand. Michael turned to him. For some reason Francis looked very vulnerable, and Michael wasn't sure he liked it. Francis was the Alpha. He was supposed to be In Charge. But apparently none of them was In Charge anymore. "Is this not the first time you've – dreamed – when you were awake?"

Michael bit his lip, thinking hard. "Well," he said slowly, "I did – see something – when we were up in the ducts in the Metal Building – but I thought I'd fallen asleep. Maybe I didn't," he said, frowning thoughtfully. "Maybe I just saw it when I was awake and didn't realize it."

"You couldn’t have slept up in those ducts," protested Francis, sitting back a little and running a hand through his hair. A disarranged section of it stood waving on the top of his head, but he didn't seem to notice – very indicative of his concern, Michael smiled to himself, as he was usually rather fanatical about his appearance. "We were always moving. Legolas and I would have seen if you'd fallen asleep."

"Legolas did see," said Michael. "He was there, in my head. He was talking to Manwë and I was listening."

Aragorn and Francis stared at him a moment, then, when the only response they got out of him was a blank look back at them, they went ahead and stared at each other. "This is really weird," said Francis slowly.

Aragorn studied him, his eyes flickering, then he turned back to Michael.

"Mike," he said. "Do you remember – dreaming – like this before – before you and Faramir met Professor White at the Bower House?"

Michael considered this. HAD he? He couldn't really recall ever having such vivid, disturbing dreams before, barring the usual wearing-nothing-but-underwear-at-school dreams, or the more hair-raising falling-off-a-cliff variety.

"No, I don't think so," he said. "The first dream I had like this was after we had that dinner at Café Deo Volente – before Legolas took me to The Lido."

Francis looked at him in surprise. "Really?" he said. "What was it?"

Michael remembered all too clearly what that dream had entailed. He could feel his heart rate increase again, and had to clench his jaw to keep his lip from trembling.

"It was – a rape dream."

At Francis' appalled expression, and Aragorn's sudden alert look, he stammered, "It was warning me – telling me what those men were going to try to do to me, the Army men in Arizona."

Aragorn and Francis looked at each other again – really, that was starting to get Very Annoying. Didn't they realize Michael was sitting right there? – and in the silence they could hear voices in the hall through the closed door, and one of them – Legolas' – was raised above the others, angry and insistent.

" – Don't care if he is, he's a fuckin' Istar, at least I had a mum and dad."

"If you'd just try to talk to Aulë – "

"What, and have him smack me back again? That josser hates me and you know it. Now, don't start, Gimli – you're fuckin' mind-blind and you don't even hear him. Naw, it's me lord and lady, and Yavanna and maybe Irmo, if I can find him. Between those four we should be in business all right."

Gandalf spoke, his voice a little petulant. "If you would only go to Ulmo – "

"I'm workin' on it, mate. Ever since that last trip I took to Valinor, Ossë and Uinen have had it in for me. Think I haven't tried that already? If I can get me lord to talk to Ulmo we should be good, but remember, he lets Ossë do whatever he wants nowadays. Brassed as hell he is at mankind, and can't bloody well blame him, can yer?"

The stateroom door banged open, and Legolas strode in, looking extremely put out. There was a crowd of people behind him, all peering in anxiously. Doris in particular had pushed herself forward, and was watching Michael with a worried expression on her face. He gave her a little smile, and she smiled back hesitantly, and wiggled her fingers at him.

"All right, Longshanks," said Legolas firmly, marching up to the bed. His eyes were bright and present, and his clenched jaw had flattened out any residual sign of his dimples. "Out. Mike and I need to do some talkin'."

Aragorn rolled his eyes, but gathered up his things in preparation for leaving. "For a Sindar prince, you've gotten awfully pushy," he complained good-naturedly, snapping the First Aid box shut and picking it up.

"Eh, fuck off. No, not you, Faramir – " Francis froze. He had been rising to go as well, but Legolas' order stopped him just as he had gotten up on his hands and knees to climb off the bed. "You stay here. Acushla – "

"Right here." Éowyn walked in, passing Aragorn. She was wearing shorts and a baggy tee shirt, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She clambered onto the bed beside Michael and Francis, and without the slightest hint of self-consciousness wrapped her long golden arms around Michael's shoulders, pulling him back onto her chest. "It'll be all right," she said, squeezing him comfortingly. "It feels a little strange at first, but you get used to it."

Michael settled back against her with a little sigh. She smelled like oranges and lemons, and her arms were very warm. He could feel her breath on his ear. "Can't I make it go away?" he asked plaintively, snuggling down into her embrace.

She gave a breathy laugh. "Unfortunately, no," she said. "Once you start Listening, you can't shut them up."

"The bloody worst part," said Legolas, shutting the door in everyone's faces and approaching the bed, "is that when you DO want to have a little chin-wag, they're nowhere to be found – fuckin' craps me off." He too climbed onto the bed, curled his legs beneath him, and rested his long-fingered hands on his knees, watching Michael carefully, his head cocked to one side. The sheet of white-gold hair slid down around his shoulder and swung tantalizingly around his cheek and neck. "All right," he said, his blue eyes glimmering a little. "Here we go."

The bed seemed to undulate beneath Michael, and the edges of his vision blacked out. He shook his head hard, blinking, and struggled to keep the abrupt languor away, pinching his leg and hoping the swift sharp pain would keep him awake. It felt as though long warm fingers were wrapping themselves around his brain, blocking out everything that was going on around him. He tried to push them away.

Suddenly everything receded, and he was looking at Legolas. The Alien's eyes were glowing blue now, and his hair seemed to shimmer. He was grinning, flashing his dimples impudently at Michael.

"Fighting it?" he said.

"Trying to," said Michael shakily. He felt Francis' hand squeeze his spasmodically. Obviously Francis was not liking this one bit.

"Don't," said Legolas. "Come with me."

Michael really didn't want to, but he could feel a little tugging, a pressing compulsion in him, and remembered how persuasive Legolas could be when he wanted. Resignedly he closed his eyes, and relaxed a little. He felt Éowyn's arms tighten around his shoulders.

This time the pulling warmth enveloped him immediately, and the darkness behind his eyelids washed away into a blooming rainbow of light. He was rushing along now, following some bright shining being through a tunnel of swirling colors, heading toward a brilliant pinpoint before them. He could hear singing, and wondered what it was.

"The Song of the Ainur," said the figure before him, turning his head, and Michael saw it was Legolas. He looked even more beautiful in this strange other-worldly place than he did on Earth. His skin was powdery-soft and white, and his eyes a blue deeper than any sapphire or topaz Michael had ever seen. The hair around his head was little more than twining tendrils of light, golden-white and glowing. When he smiled, Michael felt his heart turn over. "Come," he said. "My lord and lady are waiting."

With a lurch they were standing in a marble courtyard. It was surrounded by walls opening into tall graceful arches, and a fountain bubbled and splashed in the center. All around them were tall green trees and the faint sound of music. The sky was very blue and bright, but there was no sun.

"Where are we?" asked Michael nervously, looking around.

"Oiolossë," said Legolas. He took Michael by the hand and led him forward. Somehow he had been clothed in some long flowing white robe, speckled all over with white gems, and he was wearing a twisty light crown made of silver and decorated with opals and diamonds. Around his long white throat he wore an elaborately decorated collar of gold, made in swirls and ropes and whorls of marvelous make, and studded with colored gems. He looked very powerful, very authoritative, and very barbaric. Michael looked down at the marble pavers, and saw they were both barefoot. He let Legolas lead him through one of the arches, and there were winding stairways up a green hill leading to a sort of gazebo at the crown of the hill. It was white, and from within it seemed to be glowing.

"What's up there?" asked Michael, pointing.

"My lord and lady," said Legolas. He started up the steps to the gazebo, pulling Michael along behind him.

Michael began to be afraid. He remembered what it had felt like, to kneel before the throne in Manwë's presence. He remembered the heavy weight of his regard, the booming voice that seemed to disrupt his every heartbeat. He tried to hang back, but Legolas would not let go. They climbed up and up, into the cold clear bright air, and small birds whirled and sang around them.

Soon a figure emerged from the gazebo. It was a woman, garbed in white, with long pale hair. She held what looked like a short cudgel in her hand, but as she approached Michael realized with surprise it was a weaver's shuttle. She was quite obviously of a higher order than Legolas, for he stopped and bowed low before her, but she did not seem to inspire the same quivering fear that Manwë had, and as Michael bowed he wondered who she was.

"Welcome, Listener," she said, touching Legolas on the head. Legolas raised himself and stood on the step below her, looking calmly up at her. "My lady awaits you."

"My thanks, Ilmarë," said Legolas politely. As she passed them on the stairs, she paused and looked thoughtfully down at Michael. He swallowed heavily and dropped his eyes, uncomfortable beneath the weight of her regard.

"You dare much, to bring a Mortal Edan into the presence of the Valar," she said. There was a subtle rebuke in her voice, but an edge of humor too.

Legolas turned and looked back at her, smiling faintly. "When have I never dared some strange thing?" he asked dryly. "You know I am not called Beika-Verya by my lord for naught."

"Indeed?" smiled Ilmarë, her eyes shining. "I have rather heard him call you A'maelhathron."

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement, and they turned and climbed the stairs. When Michael looked back, the woman had reached the bottom of the stairs, and was passing beneath one of the archways into the courtyard they had just left.

"What do those names mean?" he asked in a whisper. He did not feel this was the sort of place he should speak aloud – it was too lofty, too clear. He did not belong here.

"Too Bold," said Legolas. "But Ilmarë said my lord calls me Beloved Listener instead."

They had reached the entrance of the gazebo. When Michael peeked inside, his courage nearly failed him. He could see two thrones, and two beings sitting on them. The room was filled with light, and he could feel the pressure of their interest in him, like a heavy stone placed upon his back. His knees began to tremble and he felt very weak and very small.

"Let me go back," he whispered. Legolas turned to him and smiled.

"They are your only hope," he said, and grasping him firmly by the hand he pulled him inside.

Falling to his knees and hiding his face seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. He knew instinctively he should not look upon them, that he was not worthy. Besides that, he wasn't sure he WANTED to see what they really looked like. He had seen the face of Ossë, and that was enough. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the light, but he couldn't stop up his ears to keep from hearing their voices.

"Beloved Listener," said Manwë.

"My lord and lady," came Legolas' voice from above him. Michael trembled and pressed his shoulder against Legolas' leg. He could feel the beaded hem of the robe brush his arm.

"I have spoken with my brother," Manwë continued. "He says the fate of one lone Edan does not concern him."

"Has he not spoken to Irmo?" asked Legolas. He sounded worried. "It is he that has awakened the Dreamer's mind."

"He says it is of no concern that Irmo takes an interest in him," said Manwë gently. "Peace, beloved Listener. Ulmo has decided."

"What of Námo then?" demanded Legolas, beginning to sound angry. "What good shall another Edan do him in Mandos?"

"Námo has done much to release the Chosen into Arda once more," said Manwë. "He says it is enough."

Legolas was silent. Michael could tell he was thinking. At last he said, "I wish to speak with Aulë."

"Aulë will only speak with your Heartbeat."

"She is here." Legolas turned. Michael opened his eyes and peeked through his fingers. He looked to the doorway and saw Éowyn walk in. She too was clad in a long robe, but it was blue, and her eyes were bound by a strip of black cloth. Michael watched as Legolas stepped up to her, took her by the hand, and led her before the throne. She curtseyed and stood still, her hands limp by her side.

"Little Edan," said Manwë. "You have often spoken with your lady Yavanna concerning your duties in Arda. For what reason do you come before our presence?"

"I seek out Aulë, who has hidden his mind from me," said Éowyn evenly.

"You have spoken with Oromë."

"Yes, my lord."

"What said he?"

"He said he will go to the Dreamer and succor him."

"And what said his spouse?"

"As she is my lady's sister she is in accord with this. Also Tulkas and Nessa agree that since the Dreamer is under Irmo's care, he should be protected from Ossë."

"You have spoken with Tulkas?" Manwë sounded amused by this. "Is there naught you will not attempt, O Shieldmaiden, in your campaign to uphold the fortunes of the Steward?"

"I would go to Ulmo myself, had he not withdrawn from us."

"Shieldmaiden."

This was the lady speaking, and her voice froze Michael's heart. Manwë's voice was frightening in his cool indifference, but Varda seemed to Michael to be taking a tad too much interest in him. He could almost feel her regard, lying thick and heavy on him. With a frightened whimper he covered his head and pressed his face to the ground.

"Ossë has his reasons for drawing the Dreamer down. It is not cruelty that spurs him. Dreamer."

Now Michael knew she was addressing him, and he wasn't sure he could answer. His mouth was very dry, and his tongue felt like concrete.

"You see Ossë in your visions. Do you truly think he hates you?"

"He must," stammered Michael to the floor. "He wants me to die."

"Death is not an End," she said gently. "It is merely an interruption."

"Are you saying you _want_ Michael to die?" asked Legolas incredulously. He dropped to his knees beside Michael, beads clattering on the marble tile, and put his arms around his shoulders. "You cannot mean that, my lady! Think you upon what this would do to the Steward, who is the servant of Oromë. By my efforts and great pains have I brought him back into the Fold. To take the Dreamer from him would be to drive him forth again. Would you ask that of me once more, to leave your presence, and forsake my Heartbeat, in my attempts to draw him back into your favor?"

"Death is not an End," said Varda again. She sounded very patient. "You do not see the depth of the visions that Irmo has given to the Dreamer. It is not Námo but Nienna who calls him."

Legolas and Éowyn were silent, and Michael huddled, immobile, too frightened to move. After a moment Michael peeked out through his fingers again. Legolas was still there, but Éowyn had gone. He wondered if she were going to try to talk to Aulë, and what would happen then. He could still see the feet of the thrones before him, and the light that shone all around him. And he could still feel Manwë and Varda there, considering him, weighing the worth of his small life in their hands.

He knew it was no good. Why on earth would they do anything? He didn't even belong here. They were not HIS lord and lady, but Legolas', and Legolas wasn't even human. But still Legolas would argue, and press them, and expend his energy and attention trying to save his life, when Michael knew it was worthless. All it was doing was preventing Legolas from doing what he REALLY needed to do, which was to chase down Dr. Ahn and stop him. This whole discussion had really gone on long enough. Even through his fear, he began to feel a little impatient with it. He took hold of Legolas' arm and spoke, his voice sounding small and flat in the big clear stillness.

"Let me die," he said. "You need to stop Dr. Ahn. That's the important part. If Ossë has some reason he wants me Down There, I want to find out what it is, and as long as I'm running away from him, I'll never find out."

Legolas did not answer, but from the thrones Michael could hear someone laughing. It was Manwë. Suddenly he felt himself lifted. He opened his eyes, but he was flying backwards through a long dark tunnel, and Legolas was by his side, limply acquiescent. The voice of Manwë followed them though, and Michael could hear the humor there.

"Well chosen, Little One!" he said as Michael and Legolas receded. "I shall commend you to my brother."

Then with a snap and a pop they were sitting on the bed again. Francis was looking from one to the other, his eyes anxious. Éowyn still had her arms around Michael's shoulders, but the face pressed into the back of his neck was cold. Legolas was staring at him, his blue eyes still flickering with the fire of his journey. When Éowyn raised her head both Francis and Legolas looked at her with concern. Michael turned in her arms, and saw her silver-gray eyes clouded but still very bright. When she blinked and returned to them the expression in her face was set and very determined.

"Well?" said Legolas.

"Yavanna's pissed," she said shortly. Legolas sighed, and looked at Michael again. The expression on his face was one of aggravated affection.

"Well, fuck," he said.

 


	26. Kennebunkport

  1. **Kennebunkport**



 

 

 

They sailed from Norman Island the next day. They left Nick there, smiling and waving and uncommunicative and unconcerned. Captain Dave they dropped off on Tortola, promising to give him a call when they were back in the area. He'd only shrugged laconically and lumbered down the lane with his rolling gait, scratching his backside. Then they turned the _White Lady_ and the _Semi-Impermeable_ and headed north.

After about a week, they transferred as much of the goods they could use aboard the _Semi-Impermeable_ to the _White Lady_ , and Arwen and Gimli scuttled her. They sailed a good bit away while the old boat groaned and heaved, letting the sucking current burgeon and swirl far from their own hull. Michael was surprised to find his eyes pricking with tears as the battered old sloop rolled to her side, wallowing helplessly and sinking beneath the blue-gray waves of the Atlantic. Doris stood beside him, blinking furiously and swallowing, and Michael grasped her hand and held it tight. They stood together at the _White Lady_ 's rails and watched as the sluggish whirlpool sucked the _Semi-Impermeable_ down. Her mast snapped with an great bang, and the last thing they saw was the old tattered mainsail as it was pulled under.

They stood for a while at the rail, eyes fixed on the gurgling, heaving maelstrom, until at last even the sea surface calmed and there was nothing left to look at. Doris gave a heavy sigh and turned to Michael, her eyes bright with tears, and gave him a shaky smile.

"She was an awful old boat," she said, her voice tremulous. "I should be glad we sank her. It just seemed like such an awful way for her to go."

"Maybe we shouldn't have watched," said Michael. But Doris shook her head.

"No," she said sadly. "I think she's glad we were with her."

Michael wondered at their reactions. It was a BOAT, for Pete’s sake. An old, nasty, smelly, leaky, inconveniently appointed BOAT. Why on earth were they being so sentimental about her? He supposed it was because it was the boat they'd learned to sail on, the boat they'd loved to bitch about, the boat that had carried them so faithfully on her last voyage into the Caribbean. Michael knew Gimli had stolen her from the Dade County Impound, and wondered for what nefarious purpose she had been used – drug running? Smuggling? – but at least they had redeemed her somewhat, by using her for a good reason, in pursuit of a good goal. That in itself had justified her pitiful existence, at least, and to consign her to the Depths was not perhaps so cruel – that was where a boat belonged at last, sleeping upon the sands of the Deep. It was a more fitting resting place than a scrapyard. There was no shameful stigma in going down to Ossë. Sometimes that was where you belonged.

Michael's imminent doom was known and accepted aboard the _White Lady_. No one spoke much about it, mentioning it only in casual conversation, as an aside almost, not truly worthy of note. The general feeling Michael got was that they weren't happy about it, and would do everything they could to prevent it, but as there was no changing it, it didn't bear discussion. Doris was the only exception. Finding he was Doomed had horrified her, and she had cried for three straight days when she'd found out. At times Michael saw either Gandalf or Arwen watching him closely, and he wondered if they were sorry for him, or if they envied him. There seemed to be a bit of both pity and jealousy mingled in their eyes.

He was not allowed to be topside without accompaniment. Aragorn had been terribly upset by Michael's determined attempt to throw himself overboard, and in a rather vain effort to uphold the Hippocratic Oath, he wanted to avoid a repetition if at all possible. Legolas had half-heartedly tried to convince Aragorn and Éomer that if Ossë wanted Michael, no one was going to stop him, but those two men were adamant (and were being backed up by both Doris and Gimli to boot), and arranged a schedule whereby Michael was never alone anymore. Francis, Legolas, and Éowyn had watched the frantic and earnest preparation with rather sardonic smiles on their faces – and Michael knew they had resigned themselves to Ossë's influence. Michael's own capitulation had sealed his fate.

He found he wasn't afraid to die so much as he felt vaguely annoyed by it. He at least wanted to see what happened to Dr. Ahn. It would be like chasing down Heinrich Himmler, only to be interrupted a hundred yards from the end of the road, and never knowing whether he were captured or not.

"I'd like a little Closure," he thought, a trifle petulantly. To his consternation he could hear the echo of laughter in his head, and a voice said:

"How keenly the Hunter chases after his prey!" He didn't know who it was – it wasn't Manwë, that was for certain, and he was fairly certain it wasn't Ossë, either. He couldn't picture either of them laughing like that, so bluff and hearty. It almost reminded him of Éomer's voice, but that, of course, was ridiculous.

Three weeks later they sailed into Kennebunkport. It was almost anti-climactic when they hove to and secured the lines. Here all this time Michael had been waiting – bracing himself – for Ossë to strike, and now – nothing. He and Francis would stand together, looking down into the surging dark water from the stern, fingers interlaced, expecting at any moment to see that dark weedy head breach, the long clawed fingers reach for him. But even in his dreams, Ossë was strangely absent.

Michael would awake in the mornings, and think back onto what had gone on in his head during the night. Usually it was Standard Fare for the Inner Theater, comprising muddled thoughts of daily actions, memories of past occurrences, flying or falling or looking for something. But though on occasion he could hear Legolas' voice in his head, speaking to someone else, he never really went anywhere. Only once his dream had taken him down a dark hallway to a bright sun-drenched courtyard, and he had seen Legolas and Gandalf standing together, arguing in a language he did not understand. But before he could make himself known, a dark beautiful man in a wispy gray robe had pulled him aside into the cool shadows, and smiling at him had laid a long thin finger against his lips, silencing him.

"Listen!" he'd whispered, and placing his hands on Michael's ears turned him aside from the courtyard, to a dim dark corner, where a sleeping woman in a pale gray dress lay curled on a pile of cushions. "Estë comforts you." But then his dream had wandered away, up into the stars somewhere, and when he awoke Michael wondered if it had been a Vision, or just some mixed-up memory of his trip to Oiolossë.

Michael went ashore with Doris, Lottie, Arwen and Éowyn. They were on a Mission, Lottie had said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. A Mission she just KNEW they all would LOVE. Michael had been looking at Éowyn and Arwen when she'd said this. They had exchanged long-suffering glances and smiled.

Then Lottie triumphantly led them into dress shops and clothing shops and drug stores, and they proceeded to make horrendous inroads into their credit limits, buying up shirts, trousers, underwear, dresses, skirts, blouses, pajamas, shoes, razors, cosmetics, scarves, jewelry, and – Michael thought this was strange – coats, gloves, long johns, and wool socks. He helped Doris pick out a nice parka, pale lavender with a white plushy hood and sparkly buttons, and Lottie in turn made him try on a heavy waterproof coat with a zip-out wool lining that made him feel strangely Outdoorsy.

"Can’t I get one at least in my color?" he'd complained, looking down at the olive-green coat that made him look sallow and unhealthy, and Éowyn had laughed.

"Trust me," she'd said, helping him out of it. "You'll thank me later."

When at last they headed back to the docks, loaded down with bags and packages, they came across Legolas, sitting in a picturesque spot on the boardwalk, a small easel erected before him, sketching the scenery with watercolors. He'd already produced quite a few landscapes, displayed on a rack behind him, and sat on his stool, hair pulled back, face smudged with charcoal and paint, biting his lower lip and putting a graceful sweep of blue onto the thick grainy paper.

There was a small crowd around him watching, though Michael noticed that about half of it was comprised of young ladies who seemed to be more interested in the artist than the art. Gesturing them back, Éowyn approached him casually, wandering up to glance over Legolas' shoulder at the current work. Legolas didn't even look at her. Michael saw her say something, and he seemed to utter a one-word reply. With an absent nod she turned and came back to them.

"Well?" asked Lottie.

"Three," said Éowyn shortly. Lottie shook her head, a worried expression on her face.

"That's a lot," she said. Éowyn shrugged.

"Nine left," she said.

Michael made the brief calculation and thought he knew what they were talking about – Dr. Ahn's "operatives." He wondered what had happened to the three Legolas had mentioned, then decided, outside of an ultimate destination, he really did not care to know any details. Sure enough, when they returned to the _White Lady_ , Éomer was there in the cockpit, cleaning a handgun. He looked up at his sister when she entered, and gave a tight grin, his white teeth flashing from behind his beard.

"Have fun?" she asked dryly. He just gave a loud shout of laughter, and shaking her head in mock-disgust Éowyn had left.

Outside the cockpit Gimli was standing, leafing through a big stack of mail – letters, circulars, newspapers and magazines. "Here," he said gruffly, handing Michael a couple of letters and the latest copy of Interior Design. "These are for you. And these – " He grunted a little and pulled a larger wad out from the middle of the stack. Michael recognized EWeek and Discover. "This is Faramir's."

Michael stuffed the mail in one of his bags. His hands were full. "Thanks," he said, and headed down the stairs to the stateroom.

As he passed the head, he heard water running. He glanced in and saw Francis bending over the sink, rubbing at his shirt, which was draped over the countertop. He was bare-chested, clad only in a pair of linen shorts and deck shoes, and his dark hair looked a little mussed.

"Hello, Beautiful," Michael said, leaning on the doorjamb and admiring his lover's dark torso. Then, just as Francis glanced up at him, he looked into the sink. It was full of bloody, soapy water.

Michael gasped. Had Francis cut himself? No – surely Gimli or Éomer would have said something – and Francis had gone out with Éomer. He remembered seeing Francis wave to him as he and Éomer walked down the other side of the dock. He had been wearing that lemon-colored shirt, now horribly stained, and had his hand in his pocket.

That was it, then. The blood was not Francis'.

Michael wasn't sure how he felt about that. Sure, Legolas and Éowyn could be assassins. It seemed to suit them – Éomer, too, had that bluff violence about him, and even Aragorn could be deadly, in that cool and controlled way. But … Francis???

He stared at the bloodied shirt, and Francis watched him carefully, rubbing the cloth together almost absently to work out the stains. Well, isn't that what they were going to do – go kill someone? When would it be over? When the last man died. Michael had a sudden sinking conviction that a lot more people were going to have to die before Dr. Ahn let them anywhere near him. Three down, nine to go.

Well. Better than twenty million, at least.

Francis turned off the tap and straightened up, his wet, soapy hands resting on the edges of the sink. He looked cautiously at Michael, his rather over-long hair hanging down over his forehead into his eyes. His shoulders and back glistened faintly in the muted sunlight coming in through the porthole, and Michael could see the muscles beneath the russet skin, flexing and shifting. If that pretty lemon-colored linen shirt were ruined …

Did it matter? Lottie had bought so MANY clothes.

"Hello, Darling," said Francis. His voice was flat, betraying nothing. But Michael looked into his pale gray eyes and saw fear there, fear of Michael's disapproval, fear of Michael's horror, fear of Michael's own fear. It bled out of those beautiful eyes like tears, and it hurt him. Francis shouldn't have to be afraid, just because Michael was squeamish. Michael forced a smile and held up one of the shopping bags.

"Don't mind that," he said, surprised to hear his voice – bright, careless, affectionate.

Francis blinked. Obviously he hadn't been expecting that, either.

"Come back to our room – I have some clothes for you to try on."

It sounded so pedantic, so domestic, as though they were at home, and Michael just had walked in on Francis sewing on a button or something, not rinsing a bodyguard's blood out of his clothing. But he kept the cheerful look on his face and went back to the stateroom, glancing back coyly as he approached the door. Francis stood holding his dripping shirt, staring at him with an expression on his face that was at once puzzled and hopeful. Michael gave him a quick smile and went into the stateroom, dumping the bags on the bed with a relieved sigh, and rubbing his sore arms.

"This stuff is HEAVY," he said lightly when he heard Francis come in behind him and shut the door. "I thought Lottie would buy EVERYTHING we SAW. Honestly, that girl can REALLY shop." He turned and smiled at Francis, who was regarding him with ill-disguised agitation. Giving a little inward grimace, Michael picked up one of the bags and upended it on the comforter. A pile of jumbled-up clothing tumbled out, sweatshirts, socks, a scarf, two knit hats, two packages of cotton shirts. "Here we go," he said merrily, sorting through the mess. "We got you teal – it is SO your color."

He picked out one of the packaged shirts and started worrying at the seam, trying to pry it open. Francis dropped his bloody shirt onto the floor and stood, watching Michael struggle with it a moment. Finally he said, his voice hesitant and a little husky: "Darling – you don't mind – "

Michael looked up. Francis' face was a welter of emotions, from fear to disbelief to impatience to alarm. Michael dropped the shirt with a little squeak of annoyance and went up to him, putting his arms around Francis' neck and kissing him soundly.

"Francis," he said, looking solemnly into his lover's eyes. "Faramir. I'm on YOUR side."

Francis hesitantly put his hands on Michael's hips, looking down at him with diffident admiration. "No matter what I do?" he asked, then seemed to clench within himself, bracing himself for Michael's response.

That took no thought at all. Michael had already had this out with himself in the long dark sleepless nights of their trip, thinking of the many moral ins and outs of what they were doing, and how deep their influence lay. "No matter what you do," he said with a promptness that seemed to relieve Francis. He kissed Michael in earnest this time, but released him and picked up one of the shirts, studying it thoughtfully.

"I can't decide if you're stubborn, loyal, or just naïve," he said slowly.  He looked up at Michael, a hesitantly reassured light in his eyes. Michael smiled at him and ripped open one of the packages.

"All three, I think," he admitted, and shook the shirt out, tutting at the wrinkles. "We have an iron on board, don't we?"

"Hm," said Francis absently, glancing down at the letters and magazines. "Ah," he said, his face brightening. "Gimli went to the Post Office." He picked up a copy of Eweek and flipped it open.

"Not NOW," chided Michael, taking it out of his hands and putting it back on the bed. "Here. Clothes. Now." He put the shirt in Francis' hands and went back to the bags, turning them over and scattering their new clothes all over the bed, sorting through them and putting them into little piles – Try On Now and Take Off Tags and Iron. He hesitated over starting a new pile – Hang Up Immediately – and decided not to take the chance. He turned to the closet to get a couple of clothes hangers, only to find Francis looking at him with an amused expression on his face, eyebrows raised, the teal shirt still crinkled and unbuttoned in his hands. "What?" asked Michael, bewildered.

Francis smiled. "For an interior designer, you've gotten awfully pushy," he said, with a passable imitation of Aragorn's voice. It took Michael a moment to identify the quote (three weeks WAS a long time), but when he did, the little anxious knot that had started to grow in his chest vanished instantly. He laughed, and Francis grinned, and the last vestiges of discomfort vanished. Michael puttered around, folding and hanging and cutting off tags, while Francis tried on the clothes Lottie had purchased. He finished up with a heavy yellow slicker, lined with fleece. While he was snapping it up Michael sat back down on the bed and watched him.

"Why do we need all this stuff?" he asked.

Francis glanced down at him, and Michael had a fleeting cold thump of remembrance – was this a Not-Discussed? – but apparently those days were In The Past. Francis only smiled and said, "Where we're going, it's going to get pretty cold."

Michael pulled his knees up to his chest and watched Francis take the coat off. He wondered if anyone would be looking for them in the next half hour or so. After all, he already had him half-undressed, and it seemed a shame to waste it …

"Aragorn's picking up his boat."

"Yes," said Francis, hanging up the coat. He was now clad in just his underwear – black jockeys, very flattering. Michael could see his long stippled spine, and the swell of his buttocks. He shifted uncomfortably.

"And we're leaving tomorrow."

"As far as I know."

Francis bent down to pick up his shorts, only to stop in mild surprise when Michael put his hand on them, holding them onto the bed. Their eyes met, gray questioning eyes to lowered blue ones, fluttering suddenly, then looking up through their pale lashes at him.

"Anyone need us in the next few minutes?" he asked, his voice soft and sultry.

Francis' eyebrows went up. "Aren't you going to read your mail?" he asked dryly, flicking a glance at the letters on the bed.

Michael sighed and released the shorts, and rolled over to pick up his letters. He heard Francis chuckle above him, and also heard the soft susurration of cloth being pulled up what he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt were long, muscular brown legs. Francis must REALLY want to read that latest issue of EWeek.

He picked up one envelope, expecting to see a request for donations to a charity, or an announcement concerning some auction or show, but felt a jolt of surprised pleasure when he recognized the writing on the envelope. "It's from Pauline," he said, his disappointed arousal bleeding away in the sudden excited rush. He looked at the address – a Post Office Box in Kennebunkport. "How did she know to write me here?"

"Frodo told her," said Francis. He stretched out on the bed beside Michael and picked up his magazine. "Go ahead, read it. You've been gone a while."

Michael opened the envelope with trembling fingers, and pulled out the three sheets of handwritten legal paper, his heart thumping. Pauline! Family! And so Far Away! Was she Angry? Did she Understand? What had Frodo told her? He felt eyes on him, and looked over to see Francis studying him thoughtfully, his eyes sympathetic. "I don't know whether I should feel scared or happy or upset," he said.

"All three, I think," said Francis, smiling. Michael remembered what he'd said before, and his heart seemed to surge with an odd feeling – happiness and warmth and humor and security all at once. It was not a Usual Feeling for him but he decided he liked it quite a lot. Giving a contented sigh he settled into the bed beside Francis, snuggling down in the cozy fold of the mattress beside him, basking in the welcoming vital feeling of their bodies compressed together. He flipped open the letter and read.

Within ten seconds he had gone from Apprehensive to Relieved. Pauline's letter was light, not quite Unconcerned but definitely not Worried. She expressed trepidation at his sudden loss of job, satisfaction that his "sailing trip" was going so well, curiosity at Francis' "disposable income" (Michael had to snort at that one), and hoped his "friends" and he were having a good time. Upon opening the second envelope he discovered not only a shorter letter from Pauline, but an enclosure from his mother, which was not nearly so satisfying. In her note Pauline wrote, "Sorry about this – I tried to tell Mom everything was okay, but you know how she worries, and she thinks Francis is a sexual predator." This elicited another snort from Michael, and when Francis glanced at him questioningly, he handed the note over, and with a resigned sigh read his mother's letter.

It was little more than a long uninterrupted complaint, separated into paragraphs and punctuated with many underlined words and exclamation points, regarding the complete Lack Of Communication Between Mother and Son, and the Perfidy of the Boyfriend Of The Minute, and the dearth of Sympathy from That Boorish Man Your Father, returning briefly to the Perfidy bit, and seeing the Lack of Communication on the side. There was a brief, disjointed, and (Michael was sure) wildly inaccurate description of his nephew Joshua's science fair project, a gushing account of his niece Tara's latest foray into the world of Equestrian Events, a peevish rehash of the Communication paragraph and she was very lovingly his, Mom. Michael gave a little groan and dropped the letter on the bed. Francis had read the note and was watching him, a look of sympathy mingled with irritation on his face.

"Consider yourself lucky," he said, patting Michael's hand. "You have a family to worry about you."

A sudden flash of memory, a man with bloodied lips asking for his brother. Boromir. Now Michael knew who he was. He felt an excruciating stab of compassion, followed by the guilty realization he had never asked Francis about his family – it had been a Not-Discussed, but really, he ought to have asked, oughtn't he? He got the feeling even if he asked now Francis wouldn't want to talk about it. "I'll ask Éowyn," he thought. "She'll know, and it won't hurt her like it would hurt Francis." Sensing Francis' need for Physical Contact (The Gift That Keeps On Giving, after all) Michael nestled closer, tucking his head beneath Francis' chin, and turning his hand beneath Francis', stroking his palm.

"I suppose I need to write them back," he said reluctantly, then after thinking about that a moment, he said, "CAN I write them back?" At Francis' surprised look he said, "I mean, am I ALLOWED?"

"Sure you're allowed," said Francis with a crooked grin. "Just don't use a return address, and don't tell them what we're doing. Well," he amended, cocking his head, "you can tell them the surface bits – we're sailing, obviously – you can talk about the boat, and the scenery, and the food, and the shopping."

"But no guns or Army guys or viruses or treason or killing," said Michael. "Got it." He folded up the two letters and pursed his lips. "I wish I had some pictures to send them."

"Gimli bought Doris a new digital camera," said Francis absently, returning to his magazine. "Ask them."

Michael watched him flip pages and skim articles, feeling impatient all of a sudden. Here they were, in a nice quiet cabin, all alone, Francis had his shirt off … and he was reading about – what – Open Source software, whatever that was – cute picture of a penguin, at least – but Michael was POSITIVE he could think of something more interesting than THAT. Snuggling down closer to Francis he rubbed his chin along the ball of muscle at his boyfriend's shoulder, making sure his curls tickled Francis' cheek, and surreptitiously wriggled his fingers into the crook of Francis' elbow. When that failed he opened his mouth around the warm salty skin of Francis' arm and bit down – very lightly.

This got a reaction. Francis glanced down at him, eyebrow raised. "Yes?" he said, his eyes darkening a little.

"I was just thinking," said Michael innocently, around his mouthful of skin. "We don't have to be anywhere in particular in the next twenty minutes, do we?"

"No," admitted Francis, watching him as he bit down again, his lips twitching when he felt the flick of Michael's tongue. When Michael looked with Puppy-Dog devotion up at him, a smile cracked through Francis' stoic bravado. "Don't you want to answer your mother's letter?" he asked teasingly.

Michael contrived to look hurt. "Well, my life is going to be so short, you know. I thought you might want to make my brief stay on this planet a little more enjoyable."

Francis closed his eyes and sighed, though he still gave a crooked little smile. He rolled over onto his side, taking Michael into his arms. "Are you going to use that handle against me from now on, whenever you want to get your way?" he asked. Michael was pleased to feel his hands creep up underneath his shirt, and gave an enthusiastic wriggle against his lover's hip.

"I can't think of any other way to benefit from it," he admitted, tipping his head back to let Francis nip at his throat. "You have to admit the positive aspects are a little lacking."

"Mm," murmured Francis against Michael's skin. The vibration hummed agreeably and caused a bloom of goosebumps to shoot down his back. "Not many compensations for me, either."

"All the more reason to take advantage of the time we have," sighed Michael. He shivered as Francis unbuttoned his shirt while nibbling his way down Michael's throat – it was nice to have a boyfriend who could multitask – his eyes, already starting to unfocus, landed on the door, and he frowned.

"Francis!" he said, then stifled a moan when Francis got to a rather tender spot.

"Mm," said Francis, a little incoherently. After all his mouth was working on something else.

"Did you remember to lock the door?" whispered Michael.

Francis' answering chuckle was encouragement enough. So long as Ossë continued to ignore him, thought Michael, as Francis rolled him over, Michael would continue to enjoy himself. After all, no one lived forever.


	27. Green Gables

 

  1. **Green Gables**



 

 

Prince Edward Island was every bit as pretty as Lottie had told them it would be. Michael had wondered, a little put off by her over-enthusiastic gushing, if perhaps her point of view were colored by her Favorite Author's accolades, but as they tacked into Cavendish it did indeed resemble a bright green jewel, suspended upon a sparkling sapphire sea. How disappointing – he had been hoping for some reason to dislike the place, but it didn't appear the Landscape Aesthetics Gods were going to cooperate.

Michael stood on the dock looking back at the _White Lady_ and the _Evenstar -_ he wasn't alone; it seemed everyone was admiring the two boats – while he and Doris waited for Lottie, Arwen, and Éowyn to join them. The day was cool and breezy, and Michael was wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a powder-blue polo shirt, and a white cardigan. He looked – and felt – very Preppie. But Éowyn had put the kibosh on his roll-hem denim shorts and pink tee shirt, and, looking around at the predominantly old-fashioned, girly tourists that seemed to abound there, he decided perhaps she had been right to make him look more Straight. "This is a damn Victorian farmhouse," she'd said, taking him by the collar and marching him back to the stateroom, weakly protesting. She was stronger than she looked. "I don't want any Rainbow Coalition types along. We're supposed to blend in."

So they blended – as much as Éowyn could blend, that is. Michael privately wondered, as she strode down the gangplank, if she were physiologically and philosophically incapable of Blending.

Arwen had eclipsed her glossy black hair with a low, curl-brimmed hat and wore a shapeless flowered smock that gave her the guise of a mislaid Hopeless Romantic. Doris looked Cute (how she'd glared at Michael when he'd said that! And how he'd grinned impudently at her indignation!) in a pair of overall-shorts and a lace tee shirt, and Lottie bounded down the plank in a tight pink tank top, tight pink jeans with pink rhinestone accents, and pink Converse tennis shoes. None of them so far – not even Michael – appeared too terribly out of place. But Éowyn, despite her white capris and neat blue oxford, displayed her charms with such a blatant poke in the ribs to any other woman that it was almost a backhanded compliment to call her Brazen. No one, looking at that brilliant golden head, or the opulent curve of tanned skin between the edge of her loose trousers and tied shirt, or the swell of breasts peeping over the edge of her collar, or the sultry bow of her lush red lips, could have possibly mistaken Éowyn for an L.M. Montgomery fan. Danielle Steel, possibly – or Anne Rice.

"Well, I guess you'll just be the reluctant sister-in-law along for the ride," sighed Lottie, looking her up and down. "Try not to look TOO bored, hon." Éowyn just rolled her eyes and followed Lottie to the main road.

They managed to find a bus that sported the legend, "SILVER BUSH-AOGG MUSEUM" and Lottie hustled them on board. As they squeezed down the already crowded aisle Lottie called over her shoulder, "Are we going on the Potato Tour?"

"The WHAT?" exclaimed Doris. Michael and Arwen exchanged horrified glances.

Éowyn rolled her eyes again and said, "No, Lottie, I think this will be enough intellectual torture for one day." Michael noticed this elicited a few Dirty Looks from some of the tourists on board the bus that had overheard her, and he had to stifle a giggle.

"Is it far?" he asked Lottie after they sat down. He had to lean across the aisle to speak to her, as the bus was very noisy and crowded. There was a woman sitting in front of him wearing an enormous straw hat decorated with plastic roses. In fact, he noticed most of the passengers were female, and in varying states of old-fashioned and/or pink-flowered garb. There were only a couple of men, some hiding behind newspapers, others looking out the window with ill-disguised boredom. He wondered whether he should try to act Interested or not.

"No," said Lottie brightly, looking out the window. "We're at Cavendish, which is close – OOOO! There's New London Bay!" Michael thought Éowyn's resigned sigh was very Artistic, almost as Artistic as the Eye-Rolls. He exchanged amused looks with Doris, who merely looked peevish, and gazed out the bus window.

It was beautiful there – very green, very bucolic, very immaculate. There were even horse-drawn carriages dotting the roads, and prosperous farms with quaint, old-fashioned farmhouses on them. Michael noted the rusty red cuts in the earth, and the broad white expanses of sand stretching out into the blue of the St. Lawrence Gulf. Not, he ruminated, the sort of venue in which you would find a normal, predominantly urban homosexual man, but then, considering the past couple of months, he didn't think he qualified as "predominantly urban" any longer, and the "normal" adjective had of course been discarded along the way.

He deeply regretted admitting to Legolas that he'd read the book (it wasn't his fault; he'd had to read it to his sister twice while she was recovering from pneumonia at the age of twelve) and was relatively familiar with the characters. That had instantly added him to the List of Operatives being sent to the Museum, where – Michael still couldn't believe this – Dr. Ahn had last been spotted. The sympathetic look on Gandalf's face had been the only comforting thing he'd seen when he left. Francis, Gimli, and Éomer had already vanished into the crowds at Cavendish, pockets heavy and faces bland and incurious. Michael gave an inward shudder.

One week ago, they had divided themselves up cheerfully enough between the two boats – Aragorn and Arwen, obviously, in the _Evenstar_ , joined by Gandalf, Gimli, and Doris (Michael's only consolation was that the radio was always on, and he and Doris could chat whenever they wanted to), and the rest of them on the _White Lady_. It had been pleasant, beating up the coast of Maine, crossing over toward Nova Scotia, circling that and rounding the point of Cabot Strait. Michael sighed appreciatively, remembering the delicious crab cakes they'd eaten at Chéticamp. They had approached Prince Edward Island from the North, tacking into the harbor at Cavendish at sunset (to be sure, very small harbor, but harbor nonetheless). They had slept on board, finding all hotels too expensive at the tag end of the high season – and surely no hotel bed could rival the mattresses and Egyptian percale sheets in the _White Lady_ – the following morning bringing News from Legolas and Arwen's prying eyes and ears (they had been out all night, snooping around), and the hastily assembled groups split up around Cavendish and Malpeque.

Michael wondered what they'd do if they DID spot Dr. Ahn. Point dramatically and cry, "Ah-HAH!" while the Evil Villain gasped, shook his fist, and ran? Gun him down in full sight in the middle of the street? Shadow him stealthily and slit his throat in a quiet corner? He shuddered again. He hoped any Cloak-and-Dagger Work would be done by more Qualified persons than himself. He'd have to attach himself to Doris to be sure. Despite his excellent aim and decent sailing skills, he knew he was far from being competent – or cold-blooded – enough to kill a man, no matter who the man was, or what he had done.

Silver Bush Farm was a complex of large white buildings set in a verdant green lawn, surrounded by huge trees softened by the late summer haze. The bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers, the ladies in their wide straw hats and flowered dresses chattering excitedly. Michael and Éowyn exchanged a Look that Meant Something, and they both smiled a little. Neither of them, it appeared, were expecting to enjoy themselves. They were both a little braced for what Michael was sure would be overwhelming romanticism, idealism, and saccharine-sweet ideology. He sighed resignedly. Even for a gay man with a Positive Outlook On Life, the prospect was daunting. He looked around, wondering where, in this crush of pink dresses and puffed sleeves, a Korean geneticist could be hiding. He edged up to Doris and whispered, "What are we supposed to do?"

"No idea," she muttered back, glancing around herself nervously. "One thing's for damn sure, I'm not plugging any oriental megalomaniacs, so Éowyn can go to hell."

Michael looked at her in surprise at both her biting tone and bitter words. Considering Doris and Éowyn's relationship, it was disturbing they should be at odds about anything, but that had definitely been anger and resentment hidden there. Michael wondered where it had come from. Not having had the close contact with Doris that had characterized their earlier sailing days meant that he sometimes missed things that were happening to her. He had not heard a word about that awful argument she'd had with Gimli last week until they had already kissed and made up.

He felt a little pang as he realized it had been five days since they'd just sat and chatted. She looked a little thinner, and her normally ruddy face was a little pale. There was also a tightness around her eyes that seemed to indicate some inner struggle. He put his hand on her elbow and slowed her down, unnoticed by the other three, who were walking ahead on the meandering path up to the main gate, which was festooned with late roses and ivy. "Doris," he hissed, "what's wrong? You don't look right."

Doris gave him a strange look. "What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously, her hand going to her hair. "Do I look weird?"

"No, not THAT," said Michael, rolling his eyes with just as much aplomb as Éowyn had used. "You look – here, sweetie, over here." He pulled her aside beneath an ancient apple tree, the rich pungent scent of the overripe apples heavy on the warm thick air. "You look worried – angry. What's wrong, honey?"

When she hesitated, glancing away and running her short stubby fingers through her brown curls, Michael grasped her hand and brought it to his cheek. "It STINKS, us not being on the same boat. I'm just HATING it. Please, PLEASE tell me what's wrong, sweetie. you just look SO upset!"

"Oh …. " Doris closed her eyes. Michael could see her jaw was clenched tight. He planted a quick kiss on her knuckle (he could hear a passing gaggle of girls titter, "Oh, isn't that SWEET?" and felt irrationally like mooning them) and gazed at his friend with an expression of Helpful Devotion, guaranteed to make even the most callous Girlfriend spill her guts. Sure enough, when Doris opened her eyes and saw him, limpid-eyed, pouty-lipped, sympathy practically oozing out of his pores, she gave a helpless, frustrated laugh and pulled him into a quick hug.

"It's my Mom," she said shortly, giving her eyes a surreptitious brush. "I wrote to her when we were in Kennebunkport and told her about Grim. I got a letter at Chéticamp – " There went the Jaw Clench again. Michael braced himself – it appeared he was not the only one to have received One Of Those Letters from the maternal parent. "She says if I marry him, the family will disown me." She blurted out this last sentence in a monotone mutter, her eyes averted.

Michael started disbelievingly at her. Disown? For marrying a man who loved her? What the hell was up with that?

"Why?" he asked in astonishment.

Doris ran her fingers through her hair again, but this time they got stuck halfway, and she just stood there, staring at the tree trunk, her hand on her head. A few wasps buzzed by, hovering over the wrinkled brown fruit, and the golden air hummed with dancing specks of dust. And still people filed past, in and out, chattering happily, carrying gift bags and pamphlets. Still the grass shimmered acid-green and sharply fragrant. Still the leaves rustled faintly and the wasps droned and trilled. Over their heads a blackbird gave a sleepy warble. Doris heaved a deep sigh, closed her eyes, and the fingers continued their journey through her hair, eventually ending up hanging limply by her side.

"Because he's a Gentile," she said. She looked up at Michael, her brown eyes glazed with angry tears, and bit her lip. "They didn't care – " her voice wobbled, and she steadied it impatiently " – that Ira was a jerk and a schmuck and a cheat because he was fucking Jewish. But they won't let me marry Grim because he's a goy. It doesn't matter that he's rich and funny and nice and faithful because he's a damn Gentile, and that's why – " her voice broke, and one tear traced the outline of her cheek. " – Why they're going to disown me."

She gulped and closed her eyes, and Michael, his heart wrung and his tongue limp, pulled her into a tight embrace. He heard her murmur against his throat: "It'll be like I was never born – they won't talk to me, won't even look at me – "

It was Horrible, even worse than Growing Up Gay. At least his father HAD spoken to him – not nicely at times, certainly, but he had been THERE. There had never been any talk, ever, of casting Michael out of the Morris clan, though on occasion he had been tempted to do a little self-casting. They might not accept his "choice of lifestyle," but there was never any question of accepting HIM.

Michael felt his own eyes burning, and his throat went tight. What could he say? Was there anything that COULD be said? What on earth could he do when one of his closest friends had this happen? He cast quickly about in his rather disorganized memories for a parallel event and remembered his friend Louis, who had Come Out in his junior year of college – THAT had been a horrible semester – poor Louis had cried so much he'd completely spoiled his eyelashes (one of his better qualities, as Michael remembered) and he had failed Statistics. Not surprising, really. Everyone Michael knew had failed Statistics at least once or twice. But this had been a spectacular failure, because really Louis HAD been good at math, and he WOULD have passed had his family not been so cruel to him – sending him his birth certificate back, with his torn-up baptismal certificate in the same envelope. Mailing him a Change of Name form, changing the locks on their house so he couldn't even go in and get his old keepsakes from high school. And what had eventually happened? Well – Michael hoped against hope that Doris wouldn't end up in the same place as his parallel memory. Louis had turned his back on his family, gone on a sex-rampage lasting two years, contracted AIDS, and died, bitter and alone. His mother and father hadn't even come to the funeral.

Somehow, though, that didn't sound much like Doris. And Michael was positive this wasn't quite so insurmountable a thing. He was fairly certain Louis' family would have accepted him again, had he gone back to being Straight. How could he compare that to Doris' problem? Well – there was not much to be done about Doris being Jewish. You were either born Jewish or you were –

He jumped a little when the idea occurred to him. Ideas didn't often pop into Michael's head – at least, not practical ones – so it was a little startling to have received such a sensible revelation. "Have you told Gimli this?" he asked into Doris' hair.

"No," said Doris tiredly against his neck. "He knows something's wrong, but I don't want to tell him. I don't want him to feel bad."

 _So like her_ , he thought. _So like me, too_. Hide the internal problems from the Loved One in order to protect him, but try as you might, enough leaked out so that said Loved One KNEW something was wrong and couldn't do anything about it. Then it would start – the Loved One pressing for information, the Injured Party struggling to keep it inside. Neither wanting to hurt the other, both frustrated by the sudden emotional fog bank. Silly, too, when two brains working in tandem could come up with a solution, whereas one just chased itself around in circles.

"He could convert. Couldn't he?" asked Michael, giving her a little squeeze.

Doris withdrew from his embrace, staring up at him in surprise.

"Couldn't he?" repeated Michael earnestly, cupping Doris' chin with his hands.

Another gaggle of girls drifted by and one chirped, "Oh, how ROMANTIC!" Michael had never flipped anyone off in his life before, but he was sorely tempted to now. "Romantic," indeed! This was SERIOUS!!!

"I mean, it's purely ceremonial, isn't it? I'm sure there's some sort of religious thingy he'll have to do and some oaths and stuff, and – " he paused, cringing a little inwardly " – is he circumcised?"

That made Doris snort. At Michael's hurt expression she burst out laughing and flung her arms around his neck. "Not telling," she giggled into his shirt. Michael put his arms around her back and hugged her tight. She was soft and giving in his arms, and he wished he could fix everything for her so she wouldn't be upset any more. "It's an idea," Doris admitted tiredly, heaving another big sigh. "I don't know if Mom and Dad would change their minds, but they might. At least it's something. But I'm not sure if Grim would do it."

"Oh, I'm sure he would," said Michael confidently, stroking her hair. "He loves you SO much, I'm sure he'd do ANYTHING for you." He could feel Doris smile against his chest. "You do realize how lucky you are, don't you?" he asked.

Doris looked up at him and tightened her grip. "Why?" she asked playfully. "Because I have Grim, or because I have you?"

"Well," said Michael, immensely flattered but trying to hide it behind a Cool and Polished exterior, "I MEANT Grim, but thank you very much."

"Thank YOU, Michael," said Doris comfortably. "I'll talk to Grim tonight."

"Good." Michael released her, carefully wiping the tears off her cheeks. "There. See? That wasn't so bad. You just needed to have a Good Cry, that's all."

"And listen to the voice of reason," added Doris dryly, patting her hair. A concerned expression flitted across her face. "Do I look all right? I don't want people to know I've been crying."

"Oh, you'll fit in anyway," said Michael, waving his hand dismissively. "You can just tell everyone you're overwhelmed to be in such a Romantic and Idyllic Place and you never DREAMED you'd ever make it to the home of your favorite author, blah blah blah."

Doris gave a genuine laugh at that, and Michael tucked his hand in the crook of her elbow. "Then you can go on about how Montgomery – " He stopped with a gulp. Éowyn was standing in front of them under the apple tree. Her grey eyes were cool and very sharp, and the expression on her face was one of keen awareness. Her whole body was tensed, whip-like, tight.

"Two operatives inside," she said curtly, gesturing with an abrupt jerk of her head. "Get in. Doris, you're with Arwen. Michael, go to Lottie." She turned away, back to the doorway and the sandstone step. It was as though a sleepy, indolent cat had spied an inattentive bird and was instantly alert. She looked back over her shoulder at them, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

"Showtime," she purred, and giving them a feral smile threaded her way through the crowd inside.

 


	28. Heroin

 

  1. **Heroin**



 

 

Michael found Lottie browsing in the gift shop. She had already purchased something, and was swinging the pink and green bag negligently from her hands. She appeared to be studying with deep concentration a Green Gables Snow Globe, turning it over and frowning at the price tag, but when Michael walked up to her (a little relieved to have not been paired with Arwen or Éowyn; Lottie didn't seem the Assassin Type to him) she gave him a brilliant, white-toothed smile, hooked her arm around his neck, and pulled him close in an affectionate embrace. Michael was a little taken-aback by this – Lottie was a Habitual Hugger, but somehow this didn't seem an appropriate time for it – but then he heard a soft, breathy whisper against his ear.

"Blue shirt, black moustache, squinty eyes. Four o'clock. Here."

She withdrew and handed him the snow globe. Michael looked at it in confusion, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. Helpfully Lottie lifted it in his hands and turned it so that the surface of the water mirrored what was happening behind Michael. He looked at the sloshing reflection with a little trepidation. Sure enough, behind him and to the left, a man in a blue shirt was looking at a hand-made quilt. Michael squinted, knowing it seemed as though he were paying undue attention to the tacky souvenir but not caring. Undulating slightly, the reflection of the operative moved, shifting around. Then Michael felt a cold jolt in his belly when he realized the man was looking directly at them, no doubt secure in the knowledge they hadn't spotted him yet.

He glanced at Lottie, unable to keep the trepidation from his eyes. She winked, pouted expressively at him and said, her voice pitched a little louder than normal: "Oh, come on. Please? I haven't spent THAT much yet."

It took Michael two seconds to realize what she was doing. In those ensuing two seconds he was sure he'd gaped at her like an idiot.

 _I'd make a lousy spy_ , he thought miserably. "Absolutely not, dear," he said aloud, making sure he sounded indignant. "I wouldn't have that awful thing in the house. Now come on, don't waste money on stuff like that." It was almost verbatim what he'd overheard his father say to his mother, when she had contemplated purchasing a corkscrew-shaped plaster lamp to put in the corner behind the aspidistras.

"You're such a spoil-sport," said Lottie, her dark eyes flashing angrily. "I didn't say anything when you bought that autographed hockey puck in Portland, did I?"

Michael's eyes widened and he had to struggle not to laugh. The tension was too tight in him. Between Doris' matrimonial hurdle, and the pinprick feel of the operative's eyes on his back, he could feel the mirth bubbling up in him, like soda when you shake the bottle. He knew he was going to break into hysterical giggles at the slightest provocation. He mouthed to Lottie, "Autographed hockey puck?" and she bit her lip.

"Oh, be that way," she said, her voice sulky as she turned away, her own back to the man in the blue shirt. "I have to pee. I'll be right back." She leaned over so that her lips brushed Michael's jaw, and he heard her whisper, "Count sixty and go to the men's room." Then she flounced away, pink-clad bottom bouncing indignantly, pink rhinestones flashing. Michael was sure that, if he could have seen her from the front, her pert pink-clad breasts would have been jiggling as well.

 _Cute but still Sexy_ , he thought jadedly to himself. _Sexy Éowyn, Sexy Legolas, Sexy Francis … Thank goodness for Doris and Grim and Gandalf. I'd be overdosing on it by now_. Careful to keep his back to the man in the blue shirt, he started to count to sixty, hoping he wouldn't somehow forget his numbers halfway there.

His back itched where he knew the man was watching him. He didn't dare turn and alert the man to the knowledge of his presence, but at the same time it was a little strange-looking to just stand there and watch the snow globes.

 _Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen_ , he thought to himself, wandering around the gift shop and looking at the hand-loomed cloth. It was amazing how much you could do in one minute, how hard it was to waste that time deliberately. How many minutes had he frittered away in his life, watching television or reading trashy magazines or dating jerks? Why did those minutes go by so quickly while this one crawled along like a sloth on barbiturates?

 _Twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine_ …  

He turned at the back shelf. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man in the blue shirt moving around at the entrance of the gift shop, hemming him in. What if he didn't let him out? What if he threatened Michael so that he missed his Lottie Potty Rendezvous? Well, that would be pretty stupid of him – threatening someone in a public place. But it was still unnerving to see the man hovering there, even if Michael was only looking at him peripherally as a blurry blue blob while pretending to be reading an informational booklet. If the man ended up in Michael's way he'd just have to be Rude. It didn't come naturally to him, but quite frankly he'd rather be Rude to a bodyguard than piss Lottie off. There was the brief threat of violence, but it didn't bear contemplating what Éomer might do.

 _Forty … forty-one … forty-two … forty-three_ …  

He fingered a soft wool scarf, a little surprised to find that the blend of bright color was aesthetically pleasing. And if he wasn't mistaken, those were Francis' colors … he turned the price tag over and nearly choked. Highway robbery, what they charged for this stuff. Exchange rate be damned. He could get a scarf just as nice from a department store. Then again it would probably have been made in a sweatshop in China, whereas this one was hand-made by some local yokel. It was difficult sometimes knowing which side of the fence he should drop off on – economy or principle. And then he wondered what would happen if he didn't buy the hand-made scarf – it would likely be bought eventually, and if not, whoever had knitted it would simply go on Government Assistance, whereas a drop in the Chinese Scarf Market could potentially send some poverty-stricken factory slave someplace even worse. Damn Principles for getting in the way of his shopping.

_Fifty-two … fifty-three … fifty-four …_

He was going to have to leave the gift shop in six seconds. Where was the man in the blue shirt? Letting his eye rove absently over a series of collector's plates hanging on the wall, he saw that the man was standing in the shop entrance, blocking him. He was going to have to push by him to get out. His heart started to hammer and, keeping his eyes fixed on the merchandise, began to stroll casually towards the operative. He was going to have to be Rude, or at least Not Quite Polite. Stupid bodyguard … what was he thinking? Did he really think he could keep Michael from going to the men's room? Then again, if the man DID threaten him, Michael might just let fly, and a bathroom visit would ultimately be superfluous.

 _Fifty-nine … sixty_. He lifted his head, and he and the man in the blue shirt looked at each other.

Michael was careful to keep his face neutral. He felt a thrill of fear when the bloodshot eyes narrowed at him, and his natural sense of order was offended to see a spot of something – mustard, perhaps – marring the denim shirt, and the moustache raggedly trimmed. The man's spiky dark hair was greasy and poorly cut, and there didn't look to be anything except brute stupidity in his expression. "I don't suppose body guards care much about their physical appearance," he thought to himself. "Oh, I hope I don't panic!"

"Excuse me," he said in a bored voice. The man in the blue shirt stepped aside, his eyes flicking to the cashier, who was busy with a customer. Michael exited the gift shop, his heart hammering against his sternum. He could almost feel the skin between his shoulder blades crinkle against the operative's contemplative stare. He glanced around, saw a sign indicating the men's room, and with studied indifference headed toward it, reflecting as he did so that it was much harder to walk casually when you were nervous than to walk masculinely when you were gay.

There was a round gilt mirror in the dark little alcove where the men's room door hid. Michael glanced into it. The man in the blue shirt was following him, and he had his hand in his pocket.

Michael's heart stopped hammering. In fact, it seemed to him that it stopped altogether. His eyes tunneled and he could hear a drumming in his ears, drowning out the passing tour guide and the bright chatter around him. That was it. The body guard wasn't going to have to kill him after all. He'd just keel over from a heart attack in the potty and save him the trouble. He hoped the man damn well appreciated it.

He pushed the thin plywood door open and stepped into the tiny room. It was barely four feet by four feet, and housed a miniscule toilet with a broken handle, and a little porcelain sink, stained with rust. The door nearly obscured the sink entirely, and Michael had to push his way in, as it appeared to have gotten hung up – probably scraping the floor –

He felt a hand on his back and turned, his heart (now beating again, with a thumping and irregular rhythm) in his throat. The man in the blue shirt gave him a shove, his mouth twisting up in a crooked smile. Michael staggered back against the thin rough walls, throat tight with panic, his shoulder fetching up on the corner. The man stepped in after him, his eyes cold, and hooked his fingers around the door to pull it closed. In two seconds Michael would be dead. The man would shut the door, pull out his – probably not a gun – most likely a knife – slit his throat – and Ossë would have to settle for someone else because he'd end up a crumpled bloody heap on the cheap faded linoleum –

The door swung closed. Lottie, who had been hiding behind it, gave the operative a quick rap on the back of his head with a short black cudgel, and he lurched forward, eyes unfocused.

"Catch him!" she hissed, and Michael clumsily gathered the operative in his arms, staggering under his weight. The man smelled of body odor and hot dogs. Michael's knees were weak, and he couldn't tell whether it was from fear, relief, or surprise. _Ossë still has a chance_ , he thought a little hectically, and once again he heard brassy, ghostly laughter in his head.

Lottie tucked the cudgel back into her purse, straightened her hair, and gave Michael a dazzling grin. "Good job," she whispered, and latched the men's room door. Michael noticed she was wearing surgical gloves. They looked very Efficient, a frightening change for her. "Okay, you can put him on the floor now."

If Michael had thought the bathroom was small before, crowding three people – one of whom was a bulky, muscular, and very unconscious bodyguard – into it made it seem small on a nearly microscopic level. As soon as he'd lowered the man in the blue shirt on the linoleum, having to wedge his head behind the toilet as he did so, he felt Lottie poke him in the arm. He turned to her, and saw she was holding out a pair of latex surgical gloves, white and limp and powdery. He took them uncertainly.

"Put them on," she said, smiling in what Michael was sure she thought a very Comforting and Encouraging expression, but which to Michael's rather frantic mind seemed only horribly unnerving. He pulled the gloves on while Lottie knelt by the operative's side and started rummaging through her purse. She glanced up at him, saw he was fully Gloved, and gestured him down on the floor. Michael knelt, cringing a little at the greasy, gritty feel of the linoleum beneath his knees, and wishing he'd worn jeans. His back and shoulder were pressed into the far corner, and there wasn't enough room for his feet. His legs were shoved up against the operative's side. Michael could hear his breathing, hoarse and a little uneven. The man's face was flaccid, and although his eyelids were cracked open the eyeballs had rolled back, so that all he could see was white. It was rather disgusting.

Lottie pulled a little plastic tube out of her purse, five inches long and very slim. At first Michael thought it rather odd of her to be so anal-retentive in carrying around Feminine Hygiene Products, but when she unscrewed the cap and tipped the contents out on her palm, he saw it was a hypodermic syringe.

"Roll up his sleeve," she whispered. Swallowing heavily, Michael reached for the nearest arm, but Lottie said, "No, the other one, the left arm. He's right-handed."

Paling at the implication, Michael leaned over the heavy chest and pulled the thick muscular arm up onto the man's body. He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled the sleeve back, his fingers shaking so much he made a pretty poor job of it. He considered trying to straighten it out, but then looked down at the man's outfit. Stained and untucked shirt with a button missing. wrinkled khakis and worn-down, scuffed sneakers. It would probably look stranger to have had this man roll up his sleeve properly – a messy result would be a little more In Character. He had to close his eyes when Lottie pinched up the skin with her rubber-clad fingers and slid the needle in, but he opened them in a hurry when he heard the man on the floor give a deep, gurgly sigh … and not inhale again.

Michael held his breath and listened. All he could hear in the tiny bathroom was Lottie's breathing, even, temperate, and the little tap-tap of the faucet dripping into the sink. When the toilet made a restless swooshing sound he jumped. He looked down at the man. He was not moving. He bent over the man's face. He wasn't breathing either. He looked up at Lottie, who was replacing the tube in her purse with a complacent look on her girlish, ingenuous face. Then, hardly believing his own audacity, he tentatively put his fingers on the man's jugular vein, seeking out a heartbeat.

Nothing. The man in the blue shirt was dead.

"Did you poison him?" whispered Michael. Lottie carefully placed the syringe by the man's right hand and started groping around in the man's trouser pockets.

"Heroin and air," she whispered back, winking at him. "He's a junkie anyway. Look at his arms."

Michael looked. Sure enough, there were the pinkish remnants of track marks. He thought about the prostitutes on the docks in Miami and wondered if they'd taken Legolas' advice. "The heroin poisoned him?" he asked softly, thinking back onto the parties he'd been to in high school. He had never indulged himself (he figured he was irritating enough without Chemical Enhancement) but shuddered to think of the risks his friends had taken, just to look "cool."

"No, not enough for that," said Lottie, keeping her voice quiet, and digging through the man's pockets intently, her thin brows puckered over her eyes. "It's the air that does it … can you find his wallet over there?"

Michael rose to his feet and stepped carefully over the inert body. He wedged himself in between the toilet and the door jamb and started to poke tentatively at the operative's thick backside. He felt a square, hard thing there, and wormed his fingers into the pocket, tugging it out. "Here," he murmured, holding it up.

Lottie had also apparently hit some sort of paydirt. She was turning a small address book over in her hands, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Hm," she said. "Look through it, will you? I want to see a driver's license." She opened the book and began to look through it.

"Okay," said Michael, a little relieved he was wearing gloves. He flipped open the shiny, pock-marked wallet. It was full of money, haphazardly shoved in pockets and corners, ones and twenties and fives all jumbled together, and there was a thick stack of cards crammed in one overtaxed and splitting section. He pried them out and started sorting through them, hoping to find the driver's license before anyone else wanted to use the john, which would admittedly be rather awkward.

Credit card, credit card, ATM card, business card for a towing company, business card for a handyman, membership card for a warehouse club, photo of a skinny girl with big poofy brown hair and raccoon-like eyeliner, photo of same woman topless holding her breasts out to the camera, several half-punched food court cards (one for submarine sandwiches and the other for cheap Japanese food), alumni card for a rural southern college ("Figures," grunted Michael, thinking of the big-haired woman with the boobs), dental appointment reminder card (three years old), photo of a kid with a –

Michael froze, aghast. Photo of a small Hispanic boy, naked, probably no more than eight or nine years old, legs spread, blood smeared all over the insides of his thighs. Eyes open and blank, mouth grimacing, hands clutching like claws, blue lips, dark bruises on neck. Undoubtedly dead.

He dropped the photo and retched, clapping his hand to his mouth. It was horrible. It was awful. It was worse than anything he had ever seen. He closed his eyes but he could still see it, still see the pinched, sallow face, the expression of fear frozen on the face of a child who had died in a crescendo of shock and agony and terror. He tasted bile and retched again.

He heard Lottie move across from him, heard her murmur, "Oh, my god." Then her hand was on his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut. "Don't puke," she warned him in a soft, steady voice. "You don't want any of your genetic material in here, just in case they call in the experts."

The threat of Discovery was enough to make Michael swallow his bile, but nothing made the wrenching nausea go away. Still squeezing his eyes shut, afraid he might see the unspeakable photograph again, he whispered, "Oh, god … oh, god … oh, god … "

"Polaroid, too," said Lottie contemplatively. "So this was the guy."

Against his better judgment Michael opened his eyes. Lottie was looking at the photo, her normally cheerful face gray and grim. Her mouth was set in a tight straight line. She took the wallet and put the photo back in it, then started going through the rest of the stack to find the driver's license. "Shame I can't resurrect him," she said, her voice cheerfully venomous. "I'd think of all sorts of awful ways for him to die." She shook her head. "Legolas is gonna be pissed. He wanted to be the one to off him."

"What – " Michael swallowed again. His spit was acid and burned his throat. "You knew – "

"We knew one of them was a snuffer," she said, locating the driver's license and studying it thoughtfully. "We were looking forward to catching him, but we wanted to punish him first – shit," she sighed, and gave the wallet back to Michael. "Put this back. We need to get out of here."

Michael wedged the wallet back in the man's pocket. He hated touching the operative now, knowing where those hands had been, what they had done to that little boy, to other children, missing, unnamed, their faces plastered on milk cartons and advertising circulars and poorly-Xeroxed sheets of paper in Wal-Mart. Something wrapped itself around his heart just then, something hot and hard and sinuous, like a burning snake with vengeful venom. His nausea was pushed firmly down and he could almost feel his spine straighten. Men like this were Abominations. Men like this were Evil with a Capital E. Men like this needed to be removed from the General Public before they perpetrated any more vile acts. Men like this deserved to die. Michael had helped to kill him, and he was glad – not just relieved, not just satisfied, but GLAD. He wished he were as skilled as Lottie so he could have done it himself.

Then he heard the echo of a deep voice, chuckling: "Ah, I will make you a hunter yet, Little Dreamer!" Then the bluish shimmery stuff that always seemed to occlude his vision during these episodes faded, and Lottie was whispering inattentively, "Okay, let's get going."

They stood up, and Michael tried to wipe the gritty stuff off his knees. He turned toward the bathroom door and contemplated its chipped and poorly-finished surface with vague disgust. "Won't it look funny if we both leave at once?" he hissed, putting his hand on the pitted brass knob. "And what if someone looks in when I open the door?"

"This way," whispered Lottie. There was a scrape and a thump behind him. Michael turned around to see that Lottie had lifted a loose piece of particle board away from the wall, and in the darkness behind it he could see studs and wires. Strange. It had never occurred to him to wonder how she'd gotten into the men's room in the first place. He followed her, squeezing with her into the narrow space under a flight of stairs, and helped her fit the particle board back into its groove. In the sudden stuffy darkness he heard her whisper, "Take off your gloves and stick them in my bag."

Obediently Michael stripped the damp gloves off his hands. He found the paper gift bag held before his chest and dropped them in. He could hear Lottie's breathing, close and loud in the stifling stillness, and his own, harsh and a little uneven, whistling through his nose. There was a rustling sound, and the vague bumps and brushes against him as Lottie shuffled around, then she whispered, "See that wall behind you? Go that way."

Michael turned and felt his way through the back of the walls. He could hear people's voices, muffled and surreal, footsteps on the ceiling above them, and could smell dust, and dirt, and old wood, and the faint sickly smell of something that had been dead for a while. He groped around until he hit the wall, and then felt Lottie behind him, warm and cushioned and smelling faintly of sweet, fresh-cut grass and tarragon. She pushed by him and started easing another particle-board divider away. Michael helped her, feeling the rough edge against his palm. They managed to worry it aside, and Lottie nudged him through. She followed, and together, trying not to make any noise, they set it back into place.

Michael tried to turn around, only to find a mop handle stuck in his back. He shifted one foot and found a bucket. "Good thing that rough board doesn't hold prints," Lottie whispered, trying to squeeze in beside him. "Now, we need to wait until it's quiet – "

Michael was never sure which one of them did it, but one of them dislodged something – a metal dust pan, maybe; it had that clattery whangy kind of sound when it hit the floor – and they both jumped. The mop wobbled and fell, knocking against the far wall with a bang. There were surprised exclamations on the far side of the closet door, and then to Michael's horror he heard loud, purposeful footsteps approaching.

He didn't even have to think about it. The only thing that flashed through his mind was that it was the second Brilliant Thought he'd had that day, and he hoped it didn't go to his head. He gathered up Lottie in his arms, pressed her roughly against the closet wall, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of her.

She felt supple, warm, yielding, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hip and thigh fit into the groove of his legs. She barely hesitated before she too wrapped her arms around Michael's neck and kissed him back, her lips softer and more pliant than a man's, though she kissed with as much enthusiasm as she did everything else. She tasted of mint and chocolate. Then with a screech the closet door was wrenched open, letting down a cascade of dust into their hair with the sudden jerk, and they froze, blinking, limbs intertwined, staring at the gift shop cashier, who stood, her hands on her ample hips, glaring at them. Behind her a small crowd of people, pausing on their way through the house, stared disbelievingly. Most looked surprised, though there were a few stifled giggles here and there. However, several looked very offended, as though Michael and Lottie had sullied the Spirit of the House somehow by snogging in the broom closet. Everything seemed to freeze for a couple of seconds, like some odd pantomime or game of charades. Michael was only vaguely aware of Lottie's hair, silkily wafting about his fingers, and his own galloping heartbeat.

"What on earth do you two think you're doing in there?" demanded the cashier, her eyes flashing. Michael and Lottie looked at each other. Lottie was obviously about two degrees from bursting into laughter. She was already smiling, hair mussed and covered in a dusting of debris. The laugh Michael had quashed in the gift shop bubbled up again, threatening to burst out if he wasn't careful.

"Um," said Michael. "Kissing?" He tried to stop the smile but he couldn't, without performing undue violence upon his mouth. Lottie gave a strangled snort and abandoned propriety for mirth's release.

"Get out!" exclaimed the cashier indignantly, stepping aside and pointing toward the front door. Michael knew they were somewhere between the entrance and the gift shop, so he knew the front door was that way, and felt it was safe to assume she meant to leave the house, not just the broom closet. "How dare you sneak in here and try to satisfy your base desires – "

"I couldn't help it, it was just SO romantic – " Lottie blurted, but Michael grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the closet, dragging a mop and two buckets with them, clattering and rolling on the floor.

"Desecrating the very essence of this house – " the cashier was continuing, but she only addressed their backs. Lottie and Michael made a break for it, hand in hand, running through the front door, weaving through the constant line of tourists, down the sandstone step, underneath the archway, past Doris' apple tree and down to the end of the pathway, laughing like children. They ran all the way to the bus stop, laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks, and then the bus arrived, ejecting another troop of tourists. They bit their lips and tried to quiet down. When the bus emptied, they boarded with hastily-erected decorum, paid the driver, and sat in the back, stifling giggles behind their hands the whole way back to Cavendish.


	29. The Quality of Mercy

 

  1. **The Quality of Mercy**



 

 

Lottie threw the odd little items in her gift shop bag away, one at a time, in separate trash cans after they got off the bus. One glove at the bus stop, another at the hot dog stand, the empty syringe tube in a little gift shop near the docks at Cavendish. Each time Lottie slipped a betraying article into the darkness of a bin, Michael felt a little thrill in his heart – that was the glove he'd worn looking through the wallet – that was the glove Lottie wore while injecting heroin and air into the bodyguard's arm – and the incriminating evidence dropped out of sight, making the heaviness in his stomach lighten somewhat.

By the time they got down to the docks, the sun was at her zenith and it was beginning to grow hot. Michael tied his cardigan around his waist, and Lottie put her hair up into a ponytail, sticking it out the back opening of her baseball cap. In deference to any tourists that might have seen them together at Silver Bush, they walked hand in hand, and though Lottie's grip was smaller and softer than those clasps to which Michael had grown accustomed, he was comforted nonetheless. Michael was very glad Lottie had become as much a Girlfriend to him as Doris – Arwen and Éowyn were a tad too aloof to truly fall into that category, but Lottie, with her pink clothes and bubbly personality, satisfied a Need for Companionship in Michael's heart that no man, gay or straight, could truly fill.

At the docks, they came upon the same sort of crowd they'd seen in Kennebunkport, watching with the same quiet enthusiasm the same gorgeous blond painting in the same competent and colorful manner. To Michael's amusement, there were even the same types of young girls avidly watching Legolas paint, leaning in to whisper to each other behind their hands, eyes roaming from the top of his pale sleek head to the bottoms of his rather battered lug-sole boots. And just like before, Lottie and Michael approached him to Receive Orders. Unlike Éowyn, however, Lottie disdained subtlety, marched straight up to him and said (to the obvious chagrin of the young ladies in the crowd), "Hi, sweetie!"

Legolas looked up a little absently. In his blue eyes was the unfocused concentration of an artist interrupted in his work. It reminded Michael of the way Francis would look when he was disturbed in the middle of some intense Programming Orgy – flat, uncomprehending, mind obviously Elsewhere.

"Oh. Hullo, you two," he said with a distinct Lack of Enthusiasm. He turned back to his canvas and, using a fat wet brush, dabbed a blob of white in the still-glistening painty sky there. Michael stared in envious amazement at the almost unconscious expertise involved in forcing hair on a stick to squish watered-down dye into the perfect form of a cloud. It was Really Unfair that Legolas should have Everything – Looks and Talent and Personality and Money. But then, he thought, Legolas also had to carry the burden of Listening, of having his thoughts and dreams constantly interrupted by the careless caprices of the Angelic Beings that ruled his destiny. Sure, Michael Dreamt on occasion, but at least his thoughts were – mostly – his own. He wasn't sure about that brash, chuckling voice that seemed to become more prevalent – who WAS that, anyway?

"Take care of things?" Legolas asked quietly, rattling the brush in a can of milky water, and shifting a little on his stool. Michael saw he was wearing loose gray pants made from a rough stained material, and his smock was streaked with color. His hair, though pulled back into its workaday ponytail, was mussed, and there was a scrape on his knuckles. He wondered where it had come from.

"Yes, one," said Lottie. "It was the one you wanted – sorry, Legs."

One slim shoulder lifted in a lackadaisical shrug. "Ah, no worries, darlin'." The neon eyes flicked up to Michael, suddenly sharp and aware. It felt as though someone had slipped something very cold into his stomach. "How're _you_ , mate?"

It was unmistakably a concerned inquiry as to Michael's psychological state. How could he assure Legolas of his satisfaction at having aided Lottie in her assassination? Because he was Fine, he really was, and although his stomach still felt a bit fluttery, that was to be expected, and there was no use worrying anyone, anyway. "I'm very happy about it," he said brightly, giving Legolas a cheerful smile. "I think we did some very good work today."

Legolas' face froze, the porcelain skin gleaming a little in the bright noon sun, the sweet pink lips slightly parted. His eyes glittered a little behind the thick lashes.

"Do yer, now," he said slowly. Then he dabbed his brush in a mess of greenish-brown paint on the pallet and turned his attention back to the painting. His columbine lips curved into a frown, and he blinked, slowly, the creamy eyelids shuttering then revealing those iridescent eyes. Michael shivered, though he wasn't sure why. "Bloody marvelous, me pets."

"We're going to get some lunch," said Lottie, glancing sharply at Michael, then looking back to Legolas. "Coming back to the ship?"

"Half a mo," said Legolas. He frowned, his thin brows puckered over his eyes while he worked a tree into his landscape. Michael bent down and looked at it more closely. What on earth was he painting, anyway? They were on a dock looking at some shops, but instead of this picturesque scene, Legolas was painting an undulating landscape of trees, stretching back from the clearing in the foreground into a dark forbidding mass of tangled limbs, twisted roots, and gnarled trunks. Michael blinked and looked closer, realizing with a shudder that Legolas had painted eyes in the darkness – yellow and green and brown eyes, peering back at the viewer, curious, cautious, slightly menacing, despite the bright sun and blue sky and big puffy white clouds. Legolas paused, looking up at Michael and reading his apprehensive expression. He grinned and scratched his nose, leaving behind a smear of olive-green paint.

"You never know who's watchin' yer, mate, do yer?" he said, chucking his brush in the water and standing up. "G'wan with yer, now, I'll catch yer up in two shakes."

"Okay," said Lottie indifferently. "Quahogs okay?"

"Fuckin' perfect, luv," said Legolas with satisfaction, and began to pack up.

Lottie and Michael found a fishmonger's shop and bought eight pounds of quahogs. Then, because he couldn't resist them, Michael bought a big box of chocolate peppermint creams and a package of caramel fudge from the fishmonger's sister, who had a sweets counter in the corner. Lottie laughed at him and finished off their purchases with several filets of cod – "Éomer LOVES fried cod. Do you like fried cod?" – and they headed back to the _White Lady_.

It rocked and gleamed beside the smaller but no less opulent _Evenstar_ , dwarfing the other boats and ships in the harbor with her ostentatious white splendor. Michael gave a relieved sigh when they walked up the gangplank – he was still afraid that someone would stop them, some police officer who had seen them at Silver Bush and figured out that they were Involved. But it appeared his fears were unfounded. Everything looked very quiet, and the lone policeman who was patrolling the docks didn't look suspiciously at them at all. He was far too busy admiring Lottie's backside in those tight pink jeans.

When they came aboard, they were a little surprised to see Doris there already. She was slumped in a deck chair beneath the biminy, shed of her overalls and clad instead in her bright bathing suit and pareo, her sunglasses perched precariously on the end of her snub nose. She was frowning at the laptop sitting on her knee, her thick eyebrows puckered. While they watched her she reached over to the table beside her, picked up a bottle of beer and took an absent-minded sip. Michael's mouth suddenly watered – if he were not mistaken, Doris was drinking Anchor. That would go phenomenally well with steamed clams and fried fish. He hoped she had some more. He would be perfectly willing to trade fudge for beer at this point. Then he remembered their aborted conversation beneath the apple tree at Silver Bush, and felt a little guilty about his gastronomic tastes overwhelming his concern for her. He hoped she felt better, and that his suggestion and sympathy had helped a little.

He ducked under the biminy and stood beside her. She looked up, brown eyes focusing slowly on him. Then she gave him a suddenly brilliant smile. Michael smiled back, letting the fist around his heart slacken a bit. That was not the smile of an Unhappy Woman. That was the smile of a Carefree Girlfriend.   _Much better_ , he thought, relieved. "What are you doing, sweetie?" he asked aloud.

"Oh," said Doris, glancing back at the computer. "Googling conversion processes. I need to find a rabbi for Grim." She looked out over the harbor and sighed. "I'm hoping him becoming a B'nei Noach will be enough, but I'm afraid Mom and Dad won't be satisfied without a full Bet Din and a Hatafat Dam Brit." She frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder if they'll insist on a mikveh?"

Michael opened his mouth to tell her that he and Lottie had no idea what she was talking about, but was stunned instead to hear his pink-clad partner say blithely, "Well, it'll depend on whether or not your folks want to follow the orthodox or reformed practices. Did you tell them he was your bashert?"

"Yes," said Doris, with another resigned sigh. "But Mom's still working on finding me a kosher bashert. She even hired a matchmaker from Rent-A-Yenta."

That was too much for Michael. He had to cover his mouth when he laughed to keep from snorting all over Doris' computer. He hoped Doris wouldn't be offended, but really, it WAS a very funny name, despite the fact the conversation was rather serious. But Doris looked up at him patiently and said with a wry smile, "Yes, that's a real organization … they're supposed to be really good, unfortunately."

"Have you talked to Gimli yet?" asked Michael after he had composed himself.

"Yep," said Doris, turning her attention back to the laptop. "He's onshore, ordering a copy of the Talmud." She grinned to herself. "Not bad for a shkutz."

"Be NICE!" chided Lottie, and bounced indignantly to the stairs leading down below. "Come on, Michael, let's get lunch together. I'm STARVING." Grimacing at Doris' sympathetic look, Michael followed her.

            It was odd, thought Michael, trailing absent-mindedly behind Lottie into the dimness of the mess, that his off-the-cuff suggestion had engendered such an immediate and enthusiastic response by both partners. Doris, plugging away at finding the right processes and procedures. Grim, investing in her Holy Book and willing to go through the whole thing just so he could be with her. Michael hadn't brought up Conversion THAT long ago. Gimli's capitulation must've been as rapid as Doris' eagerness to accept and propose it.

He gave a little melancholy sigh. It must be nice, he thought, to be Loved so obviously. No one who watched those two for more than five minutes could possibly think any different of them. There was no stinting of affection between them. It was as though they were both so overflowingly filled with Love it spurted and gushed out and splashed everyone around them with it. Legolas and Éowyn rather struck him the same way, but in a subtly different setting. There was no doubt they Loved each other, but that was translated into a more sensual venue. For those two, there were but two states in which to repose: the Astral Plane, where their Lord and Lady resided, or each other's arms, in which physical union could be perfected. Gimli and Doris were still enviable, but at least, to Michael's mind, more comprehensible. It was a pity Francis was so inexpressive.

He listened half-heartedly to Lottie's cheerful chatter while they cleaned and de-bearded the clams. It seemed to him her conversation was a tad brittle, forced, and he wondered why she was talking if there wasn't anything important to say. To be sure, she usually talked quite a lot, but most of the time she sounded more enthusiastic and light-hearted. Michael got the impression she was trying to distract him from something.

He was suddenly desperately aware of Francis' absence and wanted urgently to see him, speak to him, be held by him. Bereft of strenuous physical activity, the events of the morning came surging back to him, thick and onerous. The image of the little Hispanic boy fretted at the edge of his consciousness and he struggled to push it back. Yet still he could not help but to feel the petulant disappointment that Francis, cool, competent, logical Francis, while holding and comforting and making love to him, would still not experience the depths of the horror Michael had felt upon seeing that photo. He would be satisfied with the outcome, of course, and pleased that such a man no longer threatened society, but Francis was so collected, so imperturbable and detached – it was that Engineer in him, the mindset that dealt better with the unemotional computer, the cold mathematical logic, the dispassionate world view that worried at the back of Michael's mind. Gone were the images of Francis, laughing aloud at Michael's mistaking Legolas for a former lover. Gone was the memory of Francis telling Major-General Fitzpatrick that without Michael he would have nothing to live for. Gone was the memory of Francis' undertone murmur about how lucky he was. In its stead was Francis calmly rubbing blood from a lemon-colored shirt, Francis expending his passion on wordless lovemaking, Francis resignedly accepting Michael's impending death.

Michael felt the burgeoning peevish dissatisfaction in him and groaned within himself. He knew what THIS meant. It meant nothing Francis could do or say would please him until Michael Got Over It. And THAT meant Francis would perceive Michael's displeasure and respond with coldness, or anger, or (worst of all) hurt. Then there would be the Apology, and the Forgiveness, and the tallying up of yet one more Fault on Michael's part. And in the end, what would change? Nothing, of course – Francis would always be himself, and Michael would continue to annoy him. It was rather amazing Francis put up with him at all.

The next thought came unbidden, and hurt Michael more than anything Francis could ever have said or done: Francis would probably be relieved when Michael died.

The higher levels of Michael's brain cried out against this, struggling to remind him of the stricken look on Francis' face when he'd discovered Michael's fate, but the low, dark, emotion-laden undercurrent of Michael's mind sullenly and stubbornly persisted. It even tried to bring Logic and Reason into it. "All you ever do is get in his way. All you ever do is bother him. You're not smart enough, you're not ruthless enough, you're not perfect enough. You just tag along behind him and make him worried and upset. It would be better if you weren't here. It will be better when you're gone." The image of Francis with someone else – someone taller, smarter, better-looking, more competent – flashed in front of his eyes, and he gave an involuntary gulping sob.

He had all but forgotten Lottie was there. Her arms were around him in a split second, her hands pressing his face firmly into the warm soft skin of her throat, her voice crooning nonsense, her hair fragrant and silky. Michael's overburdened heart heaved and he began to sob in earnest, wanting desperately to hold her tight but hampered by two large and dripping clams held in each of his hands. So he tried to hug her with his elbows, which wasn't very satisfying, but was better than nothing. He wanted to apologize to her, to tell her he was sorry for interrupting her wonderful and successful morning, for being a letdown, for ruining her good mood, but all he could do was sob against her neck, letting his tears wet the left strap of her pink tank top and drip down her shoulders.

After a moment new arms took him from behind, longer and stronger and more muscular, and he was pulled into a deeper embrace, where he smelled pine and earth. Shining hair fell about his face and shoulders, and in his ear, echoed in his mind, driving the dark doubts away, was a soft and gentle voice.

_There is death. There is always death. We cannot fight it. But we can delay it when it is unnecessary, and avenge those who die in pain and fear._

Michael thought again of the little Hispanic boy in the photograph. It seemed to him Legolas could also see it, and instead of the indifferent, hard-hearted response he had been expecting, Michael felt the depths of the Alien's sorrow and remorse. And when he closed his eyes he could see Legolas kneeling by the boy, gathering the bloodied, broken body in his white arms, bearing the wounded soul away on wings that shone like the sun. Then he realized it was not Legolas he saw, but someone else, someone Greater, in whose angelic face was mourning and regret, and tenderness as well.

 _Those Little Ones who go early unto the Halls of Mandos attain comfort and forgetfulness_ , said the angel, and Michael saw that he was beautiful, and kind, and tender-hearted. Then the light seemed to burst forth from that being's face, and it burned away all his fear and doubt so suddenly he jerked back, almost surprised to find himself in the mess, entangled in Legolas' arms, with Lottie's hands on his shoulders. His back was pressed against Legolas' chest, and he could smell paint and sunshine, and Lottie was standing in front of him, her brown eyes filled with tears, stroking gentle fingers down his wet cheeks. Then she firmly pried the wet clams out of Michael's stiff fingers and set them in the sink. She had a damp patch on her shoulder strap but didn't seem to care.

"You okay?" she asked. Her voice was slightly tremulous.

"Yes," said Michael, though he really wanted to say, "No!" But he'd caused enough trouble. He didn't want them to make more of a fuss over him. "I'll be fine. I just – just – "

"Reaction," said Legolas' voice in his ear. "Need a right good shag, you do."

It was funny to see Lottie's response to this. She looked indignant, but amused as well. And the look she gave Michael after that was clear as day. It was as though he could hear her think, "That's his answer to everything, isn't it?" But then she looked away, past them both toward the door, and her expression became at once guarded and relieved.

"What happened?" Éomer's voice, surprised, concerned.

Legolas released him, and Michael turned around. Éomer stood, huge, imposing, hairy, like some Nordic God in Bermuda shorts, his amiable face anxious, and beside him, very much alarmed and not a bit annoyed, was Francis. All Michael's fears about Francis wanting him dead evaporated, and he flew into his embrace, reveling in the feeling of the hard collarbone against his forehead, the warm arms around his shoulders, the cheek pressed to the top of his head. Buried in the safety of those encircling arms, the lingering horror lessened. He still thought about the little boy and felt his heart break again, but the pain wasn't so sharp when he was with Francis and assured of his affection and concern. There were footsteps coming down the stairs, and then he heard Éowyn's voice, contrite, subdued.

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be a clean kill. I didn't know about the photograph."

"None of us knew," said Francis. His voice echoed in his chest, and was laced with tired regret. "We knew he was a snuffer, but we didn't know he was stupid enough to carry evidence around with him."

"At least the fuckin' bastard's dead," said Legolas behind them. "And Lottie's got his mate's addies, so we can have Sam and Rosie mop 'em up. There's an arseload of good done today, pet."

Long, strong, nimble fingers ran through his curls. Legolas pressed the palm of his hand against Michael's head. "Yer did a bloody good deed today, Mike. Horrible but good. The picture'll go away after a while."

Michael pulled out of Francis' embrace and looked over his lover's shoulder to where Éowyn stood. Her lovely face was cold and angry, almandine eyes like flint. Her lips were pressed so tight together all the red had been bled from them. Michael instantly realized her anger was directed inward. She was angry at herself for exposing him to so awful a thing. For some reason that made him feel better, that she felt culpable for his emotional seizure.

"I'm glad I saw it," he said, and she blinked at him, her winged eyebrows darting down over her eyes. Michael saw she thought he was patronizing her. "No, really. That way I knew what kind of man we killed. That made it better. Or, not better. Not so bad."

The icy façade softened, and her grey eyes slid over to her husband's, thawed and gentled. "Well, that's something then," she said, her low voice a little husky. "I didn't want to make you do it in the first place, but my Lady insisted."

"Odd of her," said Lottie doubtfully, and turned back to the sink to scrub at the quahogs. Éowyn shrugged.

"Obviously she had something in mind," she said dismissively. "Not sure what it was, but I sure the hell hope she's satisfied." She looked closely at Michael then, who had settled down in Francis' arms comfortably, tucking his head beneath his lover's chin. She reached out to him, touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers, gentle and questioning. Her eyes were still troubled. "You sure you'll be okay?" she asked.

"I will NOW," said Michael confidently, tugging himself out of Francis' embrace and wrapping himself around Éowyn instead. She was obviously still carrying a load of guilt for exposing him to both the photograph and the hit, but the fact that she'd been ordered to do so, in Michael's mind, completely exonerated her, and he didn't want her to feel bad any more. Stupid emotions, he thought irritably. Things would go SO much more smoothly without them! He squeezed her tight, relieved when she put her own arms around him. She smelled of lemons and oranges, a fresh citrusy smell that made him hungry. "Stop worrying about me! I just got a little freaked out, that's all."

"At least you didn't freak out at Silver Bush," said Lottie from behind him. "That was a good idea you had, in the broom closet."

Michael's heart swelled. It HAD been a good idea, hadn't it? "Glad you think so," he said, a little self-consciously, releasing Éowyn and turning back to Lottie with a smile. She was grinning a little impudently, her hands on her hips.

"So, Michael," she said, cocking her head at him, brown eyes twinkling. "How do I rate? On a scale of one to ten, I mean."

Everyone looked at them in bewilderment, but Michael gave a breathy, relieved laugh. "It would be hard to say, sweetie," he said. "I'd never kissed a girl before. It's very different from kissing a guy." Behind him he heard Éomer give a strange strangling sound. He turned and said quickly, "But she's a very good kisser, Éomer, honest. I didn't mean for it to sound insulting."

Legolas gave a whoop of laughter, echoed a second later by Éowyn. Lottie started to giggle, but Francis and Éomer merely looked stunned. "There y'are, now, then!" said Legolas, clapping Michael on the shoulder, grinning and flashing his dimples at them. "Made two men jealous in one day. Doin' fuckin' marvelous, you are. Now, out the mess, you lot. We've got to get tea on the table."

Francis followed Michael up the stairs, an indecipherable expression on his face. Michael, his heart pounding a little, went to the side rail and looked out to the sun-drenched bar by the head of the harbor, hoping Francis weren't insulted. It was hard to know sometimes how he was going to react, and Michael had never done anything like THIS before.

He held his breath as Francis leaned on the rail beside him, his chiseled brown face creased into a thoughtful frown, black eyebrows wrinkled, overlong black hair hanging down into his eyes. His long dark hands were clasped loosely on the rail, the thin strong fingers still. After a few moments that felt more like a lifetime than the sixty seconds in the gift shop at Silver Bush, Francis looked sideways up at him and said tentatively, "You kissed her?"

Michael gulped. "Um, well, we needed a reason to be in the broom closet," he said deprecatingly. Francis' mouth quirked up into a smile.

"Very clever," he said quietly, and slipped one brown hand into Michael's.

Michael let out a relieved breath and closed his eyes. So it HAD been a Good Idea after all … he had rather wondered, since Good Ideas were so foreign to him, but Francis' approbation sealed it. He let the warm comfortable feeling wash over him, let it relax the knotted muscles in his shoulders, let it drain the tension from his forehead. Then he heard Francis say, his voice contemplative: "So … is Lottie as good a kisser as I am?"

Michael looked at Francis in surprise. His lover was smiling, his gray eyes dark with the promise of pleasure. Delighting in the sudden hot thrill in his stomach, Michael said pertly, "Well, I'll need something to compare it to, now, won't I?"

That had DEFINITELY been the right response. With a low chuckle, Francis straightened, put his arms around Michael's waist and pulled him close into a deep, satisfying kiss. Michael let out a happy moan, his hands in Francis' hair, and even Doris' indignant "Get a room!" didn't bother him.

 


	30. Nienna

 

  1. **Nienna**



 

 

Michael lay quietly in bed beside Francis. He could hear his lover's breath, deep, even, slightly glottal. He could hear the clink of the sheets and the slosh-bump of the water on the hull.

He echoed Francis' last sentence to him in his head – "It's been a hell of a day" – and Francis was right. It HAD been, even though Michael as a rule didn't use Language like that. The morning hit at Silver Bush, the horrible photograph, Michael's breakdown in the mess – he still felt a little embarrassed about that, though Francis had assured him it was perfectly Normal ("I fell apart after I killed my first man, too," he'd said quietly while they held hands on deck. "And all my father did was laugh at me"). Then lunch, steamed quahogs with thyme-butter and beer-batter fried fish, then Aragorn and Arwen, breathless, angry, with a message from Gandalf saying Dr. Ahn had Gotten Away. "He made it to Nova Scotia," Aragorn had said, his pale eyes blazing. "Hopped a plane to Toronto. Gandalf's following him."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Doris had asked, her round face apprehensive. "Dr. Ahn's been monitoring the airports. He'll know Gandalf is on his tail."

"Better him than us," Legolas had said, and that had started the argument between Gimli and Francis about who would get to trace the flights. Legolas mediated the dispute by telling them to shut the fuck up and get on it before he broke their bollocks, and Francis and Gimli had promptly disappeared below decks to pirate a wireless Internet connection and track the two absentees. Several hours passed, with various shouted bulletins floating up the stairway, culminating with the news that both Gandalf and Dr. Ahn were on their way to London.  Legolas had shaken his head at this point and muttered, "Bugger. All right, mates, going to talk to me lord."

He too had vanished below, and everyone else had wandered around the top deck restlessly. Michael had felt a few times that tickling, crackling feel beneath his bare feet that was not the heat of the sun on the teak flooring but the vituperation flying betwixt the Listener and Manwë. After an agitated half hour Legolas had resurfaced, running shaky hands through his long pale hair. He was still visibly upset, but seemed more confident than he had been before.

"London for us," he'd said with a sigh, sitting beside Éowyn, who embraced him with tender concern, gold wound round ivory. "We set out in the morning."

Éomer, Aragorn, and Gimli had scattered to resupply, but Michael could hear what they were saying as they descended the gangplank. Not a good time to sail the Arctic Circle. Weather was Iffy this time of year. Hoped Legolas knew what he was doing. Michael shivered in the blue-gray dark. He hoped Legolas knew what he was doing, too. Dinner had been an awkward affair, everyone unwilling to question Legolas' decision, no one happy with what they were about to do. After the washing-up, Legolas had gathered everyone's attention and looked down at the circle of people, his face gentle and understanding, but no less obdurate for that.

"I know what yer all thinking," he'd said, looking from one to the other, and no one, not even Aragorn, could hold his gaze for long. "Yer thinking we've bished it but good this time. But Manwë's given me the green light, mates. It's off to London for the lot of us. Trust me."

There hadn't been much to say about THAT. "Trust me," he'd said, and Michael remembered what Francis had said on their hike to the Metal Building, that Legolas was always right. "A hell of a day," indeed. Had Michael not been Raised Properly he would have used a MUCH stronger invective than that.

As he and Francis had undressed for bed Michael had asked worriedly, "Wouldn't it be safer to fly?" And Francis had turned to him, eyes glittering weirdly in the darkness, oddly like Legolas himself.

"9/11 was only four years ago. Have you forgotten already?" he'd asked softly, his voice sending chills down Michael's spine. "At least Gandalf's on the same flight as Ahn. That means they'll both make it to London. The good doctor may risk six hundred strangers' lives, but he sure as hell won't risk his own." That had been a chilling thought, and Michael had welcomed Francis' advances at that point, wanting only to block out the horrors of the day.

Now it was dark and quiet. He could hear very little apart from the normal sounds of the boat at night, and it was comforting to lie there, hearing Francis breathe so deeply. The slightest hitch of breath made Michael turn over. Francis' eyelids were flickering, and his eyebrows were drawn down over his eyes. Was he dreaming? He looked as though he were dreaming. Michael smiled and touched Francis lightly on the forehead. "I wonder what he's dreaming about?" he thought, and laid his head back on his pillow.

His head seemed to sink rapidly through pillow, mattress, floor. Everything went dark. He was surrounded by mist, cold and damp, and the smell of dirt and refuse and decay. Before him, glowing sickly and pale, was a strange thin boat, narrow and short, more like a large rowboat with a high carved prow. It was phosphorescent, greenish, seeming to reflect back some nonexistent corpse-light into the murky dark.

Standing beside the boat, up to his hips in the oily black water, was Francis. His hair was long and unkempt, and his clothing was – odd. Primitive, almost medieval, gothic with his long dark cloak and deeply cowled hood. The wan greenish light illuminated him from below, and though the shadows distorted his features, Michael could tell he was staring into the boat, and he was crying.

"Francis!" he exclaimed, and moved to step into the water too, to walk up to him, see what Francis was looking at. But Francis didn't appear to have heard him. He didn't even look up, but instead stepped up to the boat and took hold of the side, steadying it and reaching in with one hand to touch whatever was in there.

"He can't hear you," said a voice behind Michael. Michael turned, startled. There stood a man, with the pale lovely features of a Vala, clad in a shimmering gray robe, with a white circlet around his dark head. He was smiling tenderly at Michael, and Michael didn't feel as though this particular Vala were quite as – as – intense, dangerous, indifferent – as Manwë. He didn’t have the same "feel." There was no weight on his back, no terrifying compulsion to kneel, to hide his face. In fact, Michael got the vague impression that this particular Vala actually liked him.

"Who are you?" asked Michael wonderingly.

"I am Irmo," he said.

That meant very little to Michael. He remembered hearing the name, but couldn't for the life of him remember what this particular Vala was in charge of. He nodded politely to cover his confusion. "I'm Michael," he said shyly. It was hard to know how to introduce oneself to an angel.

Irmo shook his head. "You are the Dreamer," he said, and laughed. His laugh had the clear artless quality of a child's. He stepped forward and took Michael by the hand. His touch was very cold, but firm nonetheless. He led Michael to Francis' side, and they both looked into the boat. It was narrow-beamed and high-prowed, and made of some pale hard wood, cut into narrow planks and curved. There was the slightest bit of bilge-water in the bottom of the boat, though Michael felt certain it was due more to User Error than to some defect in the boat itself. There were two men lying in the bottom of the boat. One of them was the man Michael had seen in a previous vision, pierced by arrows and crumpled dead in the thick leafy loam. The other was Michael himself.

He stared down at his own inert body with a sort of horrified fascination. He was undoubtedly dead, as was Francis' brother. He was wearing some sort of coat – it looked like the coat Éowyn had bought him in Kennebunkport – and his face was still and white and cold. His hands, like Boromir's, were crossed upon his chest. It was very strange to see himself like this, white and blue-lipped and motionless. He looked at Francis, who was lightly touching his brother's hands. He was crying, and shaking his head. The look of pain in his face was so vivid and intense that it almost hurt Michael physically to see it.

"All I love dies," said Francis into the thick humid dark.

"One might rather say that all die, loved and unloved," said a woman's voice. Appearing beside Francis out of the fog was a tall lovely woman, wrapped in mist. Upon her face was an expression of abiding sorrow. Francis turned to her, the pitiful confusion in his eyes wrenching at Michael's heart.

"But we don't all stay dead," he said, his voice breaking. The woman gave a small smile and climbed into the boat, sitting up on the stern and looking down at the two dead men. She leant on her elbows, folding her long graceful hands beneath her pointed chin. Her pale hair fell about her breasts.

"Very few of the Eldar choose their doom," she said absently.

"It doesn't appear as though you've given any of us a choice, Elda or Edan," said Francis bitterly.

"These two both chose," said the woman, gesturing to the bodies at her feet. "Your brother chose death to protect those placed under his care. It is for that noble act he dwells now in peace in the high halls of Mandos, where otherwise he would not have been permitted to go. And your lover chose death out of his unwavering faith in the foresight and wisdom of the Valar, and has thus been amply given his reward as well. Mourn for them, O Steward, but stay this self-pity. Accept your given lot, as they did. Learn from their separate triumphs."

"What can I learn from death?" asked Francis. His voice was weary. "Boromir was shot to death because he was outnumbered, and Michael drowned. Those were such stupid, wasteful ways to die. It seems more to me as though the Valar are just toying with me, offering me happiness and taking it away."

"You were meant to go with the Fellowship," said the woman gently. "It was you Irmo called, knowing you to be the better man. But your brother in his arrogance and pride went in your place, and put the quest and the Ringbearer in danger."

"So you punished him."

"No. We saved him. Had he remained in Minas Tirith, he would have disdained Aragorn's kingship and there would have been war on top of war unending. Men would have been divided, and the Dark Lord would have won and all Arda plunged into darkness. But when the Ring called him and he answered, the Ringbearer fled, and Boromir's mind cleared. His death opened the way for the Halflings to go to Fangorn, and for the Three Hunters to go to Rohan."

Francis seemed to consider this. It obviously made a lot of sense to him, though it seemed to Michael to only be so many disconnected phrases and confusing words. "So … if I had left Boromir at home – "

"He and your father would have fought over the throne, and rejected the king," said the woman patiently, folding her white robes over her knees. "Boromir's death would have been plunged in hatred and bitterness and civil war. But his sacrifice redeemed him, and he sleeps in peace."

Francis appeared to accept her explanation, though he didn't seem overly happy about it. Michael didn't blame him. It sounded an awful lot like Predestination and not Fate, which was unnerving. Michael would rather have believed in Fate. At least you had half a chance that way. He turned to Irmo, who was listening calmly, a look of unworried acceptance on his face. "Is this true?" he asked.

"Yes," said Irmo. "Nienna does not lie, for it is the truth that heals the souls of the peoples of Arda. Listen!"

Michael listened, but it didn't appear either Nienna or Francis would speak for a few moments. They both seemed wrapped up in their separate thoughts. Nienna mourned, Michael was sure, though her mourning was that of stoic acquiescence. Francis seemed steeped in doubt, his gray eyes troubled, his hands touching his brother's and his lover's faces tenderly, regretfully. He did not seem to possess the yielding acceptance of the pale Vala at the stern of the boat.

"What about Michael?" Francis asked at last, looking up at Nienna, his eyes clouded with tears. "Why did you have to take him from me?" His voice was tremulous and pitched about a half-octave higher than normal. Michael could tell he was two steps from bursting into tears, and it so wrung his heart he reached out to touch Francis, but of course, Francis couldn't feel him.

"It is not cruelty or even indifference, but pity that spurs Ossë," said Nienna firmly. "Look you unto his pale fair face, and think upon the many ways a man can die. Would you not spare him pain if you could? Or are you so selfish, O Steward, that you would keep him by your side so that he might die in agony?"

Michael peeked down at his face again, very aware of the unknowing form of his lover hovering by his side. Pale, yes, but fair? Well, maybe compared to that rough, broken-nosed, scruffy man beside him … but certainly not compared to the likes of Irmo or Nienna, or even Legolas. But Francis reached down, caressing the dead Michael's cold cheek, tears running down his face into his half-grown beard. He laced his dirty fingers into the ashen flossy curls, traced the outline of his eyebrows, his nose, his chin.

Michael had to suppress a shudder. Francis touched him all the time, but never like that – never with that look of broken regret, helpless adoration, with such aching and doting touch, as though he were worshipping Michael and not just giving him the dutiful caress intended to inspire lovemaking. It was unsettling to see his Alpha like that, stripped of that cool and controlled veneer, lost and vulnerable and fragile. He wanted to hug Francis, to tell him he loved him, to beg him to not miss him so much when he went away – but of course Francis couldn't see him, couldn't hear him, and certainly couldn't feel him. Michael turned away, feeling he shouldn't watch Francis reduced to such a state. It seemed an awful invasion of privacy.

Irmo regarded him sympathetically, taking him by the hand and leading him back away from the river side. They watched the four figures, Boromir and Michael, Nienna and Francis, all still, glowing slightly at the water's edge, embraced in cold thick mist. Nienna was studying Francis carefully, as though she were waiting for something, and Irmo and Michael watched her watch Francis. Michael wanted to speak, wanted to break the heavy silence, but not only did he feel it wasn't his place, he wasn't sure what he'd say anyway. This was not, after all, HIS dream.

"I relinquish them," said Francis at last. He straightened up. Nienna stirred, her eyes kindling, and some of the sickly light faded. The boat began to move, slipping away from the shoal, rocking with its weight. The prow turned to the middle of the river and started to float away.

"Your choice behooves you at last, O Beloved Steward," said Nienna, raising her hand to him in farewell. "When your Dreamer is taken from you, your Dreams will return to you. Go in peace."

Michael watched the boat slide away into the murky water, the soft slurp and slap of the waves on the pebbly shore mingling with the creaking of the oars that Nienna wielded, urging the boat into the river's current. Francis stepped into the water waist deep, watching her go, the tears running down his face freely. In his eyes was a living, dynamic sorrow, burning away the numb deadly decadence that had been stamped there for as long as Michael had known him. He could almost feel Francis' heart breaking from there, but it was not a despairing fracture. Instead the corpse-light vanished and all that was left was the cool sentient dark embracing him. Just as Irmo drew him away he heard Francis speak, his voice the faintest whisper over the rustle of the river.

"Don't leave me," Francis murmured as he faded from sight, but Michael couldn't tell whether he were speaking to Boromir, to Nienna, or to him.


	31. Psalm 130:1

 

  1. **Psalm 130:1**



 

 

Michael had never been so cold in his life.

Their stateroom was warm. The mess was warm. The head – thank goodness – was warm. Michael's clothes were warm – long johns, turtlenecks, wool sweaters, fleece mittens and socks and boots. But he didn't have enough adjectives in his vocabulary to even begin describing how bone-chillingly, limb-achingly, nose-pinchingly, lip-crackingly, stomach-shiveringly cold it was.

For poor Michael, who had grown up in southern California and only went "north" to his grandfather's farm in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold more than anyone else on board either the _White Lady_ or the _Evenstar_. Éomer and Lottie didn't mind it, laughing carelessly and telling people it wasn't NEARLY as bad as Murmansk in February. Legolas and Arwen didn't seem to feel the cold at all, and Francis and Aragorn simply accepted its inconvenience with a stoic inattentiveness that irritated Michael. Éowyn treated the elements with the contempt they deserved, which Michael thought very Brave of her considering her Astral connections. Gimli blithely admitted he had plenty of "natural insulation" (though Michael was unsure whether he meant his extra cellulitic padding, or body hair, and didn't care to ask for clarification) and Doris said she was pretending she was in Chicago in mid-winter, minus the air pollution and the presence of her former mother-in-law, making this a much more pleasant experience for her.

She and Michael spoke frequently over the radio, mostly because Michael was warm in the bridge and didn't want to venture out into the cruel elements. The added benefit was having a constant line open to her, so that he could get updates on the Gimli-becomes-a-Jew saga. Apparently there was a lot of studying involved, and learning Hebrew, to which he had applied himself with great enthusiasm. This, naturally, only fanned the flame of Doris' devotion to him, which was certainly encouraging, but became rather cloying after a while. It was hard to listen to a friend gush so enthusiastically about her lover's ardor when one's own was so reserved.

Had Francis possessed a more openly demonstrative nature, and had Michael not spent most of his adolescent and adult years living in constant fear of societal censure, Michael speculated it was entirely possible that he and Francis would have been acting the same way. Michael had never admitted to Francis that he had "eavesdropped" on his dream of Nienna, but Francis' obvious deep emotional attachment to his lover had been rather painfully obvious, and Michael's heart had softened toward Francis – though he frankly admitted to himself if he got any "softer" he'd dissolve entirely – so that it seemed to him every word and look and touch was a declaration of – not "love" – Michael privately called it "the L-word," unwilling to take that fatal, final step.

Though the cool façade was kept firmly in place while Francis was awake, protecting him from ridicule and disapproval and hurt, it slipped now and then, either in the protective darkness of their cabin, or the shimmering murmurs while he dreamt, reassuring Michael of Francis' regard for him. Never openly acknowledged, still it hovered beneath the surface of their dealings with each other. A crack now and then in the impassive face, responding to one of Michael's smiles or jokes. A deeper tenderness behind a sultry look. A sudden impulsive hug born of some secret stimulus, never spoken of, never divulged. It was strange that the Not-Discussed category should have evolved to this state. At times it frustrated Michael, who longed desperately to hear the Fateful Words from Francis' own lips. But he sadly conceded to himself the protective shell Francis had always worn would not permit such blatant self-immolation, and quite frankly he couldn't blame his lover one bit. You could only expose yourself so many times to the jabs and barbs of your fellow man before withdrawing entirely, and just this little concession on Francis' part was going to have to be enough.

He struggled across the deck. It was slick, and the _White Lady_ was heeled over to about a forty-five degree angle, beating past the coast of Iceland in floe-choked waters. A stiff wind whipped at him, lashing him with ice particles flung from the crackling coated sheets, and the glazed deck bloomed with strange icy white flowers beneath his feet. He tried to tug his scarf further up his face to protect his aching nose, but the thick fleece gloves hampered his movement. Head down, he grasped at the rails as he went, trying to keep his footing, looking down into the swelling green-black water. On nicer days he would have his binoculars out, on the hunt for whales, and on those occasions they passed close enough to the cliffs, he might even see puffins.

They were passing by Heimaey, and Michael could see its towering volcano, Eldfell, peeping coyly through the gray sleet. "Halfway there," Legolas had said with satisfaction that morning. "Nearly to England. This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, and all that bloody shite."

"Behave yourself," Francis had said dryly, and Éomer had laughed.

 Michael knew he recognized the quote, but couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it. Wasn't it Shakespeare or someone like that? He'd ask, but his lips were too cold. And anyway, with this crowd, it was simpler to just lay low and keep quiet. They all seemed to know so much, remember so much, about history and literature and art, that they made Michael feel rather dense and poorly educated.

Doris had complained about that too. She'd said on more than one occasion, "I know I'm not stupid, but boy, they sure can make me feel that way." What, had they all taken Ph.D.s in every Liberal Arts subject? The way they talked about people like Titus Andronicus, or places like Sutton Hoo, or buildings like the Pont du Gard, or events like the slaughter of the Mayans, it was almost as though they had been there … which was, of course, absurd. It didn't bear thinking of. So Michael, being Michael, simply didn't think of it.

"They're just smart," he'd firmly told himself, when he overheard Legolas and Aragorn arguing one night about Pope Innocent VI and the schism in the Holy Catholic Church. "They've just read so much about this that they're extrapolating all this other stuff, like who said what, and what they were feeling, and what happened next. They can't possibly know this is how it happened." That, at least, was a more comfortable explanation than the alternative, which, despite everything he'd already experienced, still frightened him. Bad enough he'd been kidnapped by Aliens. The implications of Immortal Aliens Living Among Us was so terrifying Michael just wanted to hide under the bed until it was absolutely and irreversibly Over.

He staggered into the cockpit, slipping on the icy mat and steadying himself on the door. A blast of heat welcomed him, searing just the surface of his skin, though his interior topography still felt frozen. He pushed his scarf down over his chin, and his nose – of course – instantly began to run. He struggled with the door. Gravity and a brisk wind held it open, but with a great effort (and not a little grunting) he slammed it closed, shutting out the shrieking of the wind and the hollow booming of the sails. With a relieved sigh he pulled off his soaked gloves and leaned against the door.

Legolas was sitting at the navcomp, a green knit cap covering the smooth fall of platinum hair. To Michael's amusement, the tips of his pointed ears flanked the bottom hem of the cap, like the wings of a Viking's helm. It seemed oddly apropos considering their location. The windows of the bridge were heavily tinted, making the leaden sky seem even more ominous. There was a scum of ice crusting the edges of the windows. But the heater was pumping out hot air, the walls retarded the cutting wind, and there – right beside Legolas – was a thick, deep chair, right next to the heat vent, just begging for Michael's bottom. He shucked his coat and scarf and dropped into it heavily. Legolas glanced at him and smiled. He had a small earpiece nestled in the creamy folds of one ear, and the wire wandered down his slim wool-clad torso like a long thin snake. One of his hands was splayed on the control panel, the other held a steaming mug.

"Cocoa?" asked Legolas, gesturing with the mug.

"Please," said Michael earnestly. With a chuckle Legolas handed him a fat round thermos and a porcelain mug. While Michael filled it with the thick brown liquid, admiring the whirls and curls of steam and happily anticipating its warmth spreading through his stomach, Legolas dug out a bag of marshmallows and plopped two fat dusty ones into the mug. It splashed over the edge a little, but Michael was past caring.

"Bit nippy," said Legolas, making some minor adjustment to the controls in front of him.

"A tad," said Michael dryly. Legolas chuckled.

"Be glad we're not makin' this run in February," he said, settling back on his chair and throwing one lanky leg over the arm. "Gets right parky. Chilly now, but cold as a witch's tit in winter."

"Thanks," said Michael, taking a careful sip of his hot chocolate. "I feel much warmer knowing that."

"Figured you might, mate."

Michael watched Legolas absently, glad he was comfortable enough in his presence to tease him, and admiring the sheer sensual effect Legolas had on his immediate environment. He was still surprised after all this time that the blond provoked in him such a pressing physical reaction. The graceful, thoughtless movements, whipcord-strong body, silky flaxen hair and thick rich skin, dented just THERE with a sweet dimple beside those cupids-bow lips, and Michael felt his insides quicken.

It was unfair to Francis, really, and Michael knew it. Why should he expect such unthinking and focused devotion from his lover when he happily blindsided himself admiring the corporeal attributes of another man? Feeling guilty, he tore his eyes from Legolas' face and stared at the computer screen instead. There was a radar displayed, radius circling green and little blips popping up, activating that irritating bleeping sound. Beside that was a map showing the coast and bottom floor of the ocean. Michael had learned enough by then to be able to tell it was incredibly deep just beneath them. He knew that ought to make him feel better – the _White Lady_ was very deep in the draft, and no one wanted to shoal, not in these waters – but for some reason the thought of those miles of unending water beneath his feet gave him the chills. Legolas leant over the board, twiddled a few knobs, and gave a satisfied-sounding grunt.

"Clear so far," he said.

"We're not going to pull a _Titanic_ , are we?" asked Michael carelessly, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. It warmed him all the way down his throat and into his stomach, and he wriggled happily into the co-captain's chair.

"Fuck, no," laughed Legolas. "Don't really fancy drowning, mate. 'Sides, we've got an arseload to do. Don't have time to die."

Michael snorted into his mug. That sounded very funny to him, but he rather saw Legolas' point. If it had taken Legolas five minutes to come back to life after being shot, how long would it take him to recover after drowning? And then what would he do when he did come back – swim the long miles to the nearest coast, alone, with no mode of transportation? "So what now?" he asked. He moved his legs closer to the vent, hoping the heat would defrost his toes enough so that he could feel them.

"Now we strike south-east to the Faroe Islands, where we'll pick up fresh water, then head to Castle Bay on Barra in Scotland. We resupply, check to see where Whitey's got his arse off to, and if Ahn's still in England, we're docking at Whitehaven and taking the train to London."

"Whitehaven?"

"Coast town, western England. We'll leave the boats there, I know a bloke what owes me a favor."

"Oh," said Michael, and applied himself instead to the dwindling liquid in his mug, and not staring at the curve of Legolas' leg, draped over the arm of his chair. He sighed. At least they weren't still in the Caribbean, with everyone running round half-naked. That had been REALLY distracting. How long had he been at sea, anyway? Sailing took so LONG!

"I wish we could fly," he said, a little plaintively. "It'd be faster. Wouldn't it?" He looked up anxiously at Legolas, who was regarding him seriously. "I mean, really. Couldn't we just fly? Or even just you, you'd be safe. Wouldn't that make more sense?"

"I won't risk it," said Legolas, shaking his head firmly. "Me, on a fuckin' plane with six hundred other blighters, inviting Ahn's goons to blow us out of the bloody sky? Naw, mate, I might come back to life eventually – once me lord collected me bits and pieces, anyway – but for the average bloke, dead is dead, and I won't have that on me conscience."

Michael sighed. He was finding the study of Situational Ethics to be very confusing. "Well, okay," he conceded reluctantly. He stared into his mug, watching the brownish-gray milky liquid shifting sluggishly on the bottom. There was a leftover chunk of marshmallow sticking to the side of the mug. He worried it off with his finger and put it in his mouth. It was spongy and very sweet. He felt a hand grip his arm, and looked at Legolas, still with his finger in his mouth. Legolas was smiling sympathetically, his blue eyes soft.

"I know, feels like it's taking fucking forever. But easy does it, mate. Ahn thinks we're flying, and his bloody goons are watching the airports. So long's the twat thinks we haven't got there yet, he'll lie low, and we come on up where he won't see us." Legolas gave a rather unpleasant smile, his neon eyes glittering a little. "Then we top 'im."

Michael shivered. He knew what THAT meant. He swallowed the softened chunk of marshmallow, pulled his finger out of his mouth, and whispered, "Who gets to do it?"

That question seemed to surprise Legolas. Michael didn't blame him. He was rather surprised he'd asked it too. He knew that, compared to the rest of the people on these ships (Doris excluded, of course), he wasn't Brave or Manly or Assertive. He knew he didn't have what it took to be an assassin – or even a spy. He knew he hadn't been dragged along to perform Heroic Deeds or Feats of Valor, despite his brief foray into Lottie's private murder. He knew why he was there. He was there because of Francis. If Francis had just done what Legolas had wanted in the first place –

Well, then what? What if Francis HAD gone along with it, worked with Gimli and everyone else, pirated that program? What would've happened to Michael when it had come time to steal that plane so Legolas could parachute down to the Metal Building? Would he have been left behind in San Diego? If so, what might have happened to him then? He'd been traced to The Lido. What if Ahn's operatives had simply tracked him to work and shot him there? Or blown up Francis' condo, with him inside? Was that why Legolas had brought him along – not necessarily to facilitate Francis' cooperation, but to protect him? Either option was depressing. It implied weakness and possession on both counts.

"Does it matter to yer, mate?" asked Legolas gently. He put his mug of cocoa down and lightly touched Michael's cheek. His fingers were soft and light, like feathers brushing his skin. Michael closed his eyes. There was something so soothing about Legolas, despite his foul mouth and erratic ways. His touch was calming, comforting. Not titillating, like Francis' touch often was, but still something to be craved and anticipated. Was it sexual? Michael didn't think so – Legolas was so aggressively straight – but the touch was welcome nonetheless, especially when he was feeling so horribly out of place.

“A little, yes," he said, raising one hand to press Legolas' fingers up to his cheek, wanting to protract the sensation. When the tips of those long fingers twitched, he opened his eyes. Legolas was studying him thoughtfully. Michael could tell he knew why he'd done that, why he'd prolonged the caress. There was no censure in that cerulean gaze, but lingering about the tightened corners of those curved pink lips was a hint of concern. Michael released Legolas' fingers, and Legolas slowly withdrew them, his eyes contemplative.

Michael swallowed. Had he screwed everything up? Surely Legolas already knew Michael thought the world of him. This couldn't possibly be a shock. And anyway, it wasn't as though Michael hoped anything would come of it – even without Legolas' wife and heterosexual bent, there was Francis to consider.

            "I'll tell you this much, mate," said Legolas slowly, still watching Michael like a cat sated on cream might contemplate a fat, stupid mouse. "Éomer and Faramir are buckin' for the right ter off Ahn. Haven't decided yet, though."

            Michael blinked at him. Wasn't he going to comment on what had just happened, on that uncomfortable jolt beneath Michael's chest, on his audaciousness in desiring a man who didn't belong to him? Then what Legolas had just said sank in, and Michael sat up with a startled gasp.

            "FRANCIS wants to do it?" he demanded, putting the mug down on the console with a clatter.

            "I take it he hasn't told yer," said Legolas dryly, picking up the carafe and refilling both his and Michael's mugs. Michael gulped.

            "No," he said, irritated to hear how high his voice had gotten. "He didn't – doesn't – tell me much of anything."

            "No?" Legolas handed him the mug. One arched eyebrow climbed up his forehead. "Not even now?"

            "No, not even now," said Michael. He realized that was rather unfair to Francis, and took a sip, wincing at how hot the cocoa was. "Not that I ask."

            "Got out of the habit, eh?" Legolas' sympathetic look said enough. Michael shrugged.

            "Yes," he admitted. "It's not that I'm not curious, I just – " He stalled, wondering how to explain it.

            "Yer don't want to rock the boat," Legolas finished for him. At Michael's sigh he shook his head, his pale hair swinging from side to side around his shoulders. "Six fuckin' months of him tellin' yer to keep yer gob shut and yer nose out of his business, then gettin' drug round the globe and watchin' folks die … don't bloody blame yer, mate."

            "It's not Francis," said Michael stubbornly, wanting to defend him. He owed it to Francis, after this big slip-up. "It's me, it's my fault. I know he doesn't really want to talk about it, so I don't ask him or anyone else, so he doesn't have to."

            "Which explains why yer thought I was his old bender, eh?"

            Mortified, Michael looked over at him, dreading Legolas' reaction. Instead of being offended, or even amused, Legolas simply appeared meditative, studying Michael carefully. Michael gulped and put his mug down. His hands were shaking. Abruptly Legolas reached over, and with one long white hand took both of Michael's in his own. His palm was very warm and soft.

            "Don't go gettin' the abdabs, now," he said gently, giving Michael's hands a squeeze. "Not miffed at yer." He chuckled. "Knowin' Faramir's aesthetic standards, it's a compliment, mate."

            Michael tried to speak. His lips were quivering and his throat was tight. "I wanted you, but I was so jealous of you," he said, a little plaintively. Then Legolas did laugh, threw his head back and gave Michael's hands a little shake, as though to wake him up.

            "Ah, Dreamer me boy," he said with a grin, "Yer a fuckin' treasure – don't blame Faramir for lovin' you. Can hardly help it, the poor nit."

            Loving? Michael blinked. There it was – THE L-WORD. Or, at least, a variation of the L-word. It was like a rat in the wall. You suspected it was there, but could never see it. Could hear it on occasion, but never catch it. It lurked, prowled, tiptoed stealthily about, leaving behind only the stinking suggestions of its presence.

Francis didn't love him. Michael knew it. Francis thought a lot of him, certainly – the dream had proved that – had tender thoughts toward him – desired him physically – perhaps even had protective and kindhearted feelings toward him – but Francis didn't LOVE him. It was a perpetual underlying ache in Michael's breast, this knowledge, but still, loving Francis was good enough. He didn't really need Love with a Capital L in return, not now. Besides, so much had improved – no more Disapproving Glances, no more sly and secretive acts, no more coldly shutting him down when Michael threatened to become Emotional. How much could you ask of the man, anyway?

Michael's heart gave a heavy thump, and he felt suddenly cold. Legolas was watching him, abruptly alert, eyes bright and present. Michael could've sworn his ears twitched – the cat again, but this time with more titillating prey.

            "Hasn't he told yer?" asked Legolas sharply. Dumbly Michael shook his head. He didn't want to risk Breaking Down Completely here in the bridge – not when he was just getting warm again. It would not only be mortifying, but then he'd have to run back to his stateroom to Tidy Up, and it was so cold out there. So he watched Legolas instead, watched the wild blue eyes flicker, the brows crouch down in a V as he thought, as he studied the smaller man before him. Then the sweet pink lips twitched and curved upward.

            "Bet yer haven't told him, either." Michael bit his lip, irrationally aggravated – how did he KNOW??? – and Legolas grinned, flashing his dimples and all his white teeth at him. "You daft buggers," he chuckled, eyes twinkling affectionately. "Yer waiting fer him ter say it, eh? And I'll have a flutter he's waiting fer you. Fuckin' A, Mike, what the hell're you faffin' off for?"

            Michael blinked at him. It wasn't that easy. He couldn't possibly think it was that easy, because it wasn't. Not for him, at least. Maybe for Legolas. He was sure Legolas hadn't had any trouble at all telling Éowyn he loved her. Because it was very obvious Éowyn loved him back. There would've been no risk. Besides, who could possibly NOT love Legolas? But there was a risk for Michael – he was pretty sure Francis didn't love him, and what would happen if Michael said those Fateful Words to Francis, and Francis couldn't respond in kind? It would be Awful – and Awkward – it would place them on such different footing. It would upset the careful balance they had achieved, because then Francis would know, he would have an advantage, he would truly achieve Alpha state and have complete control over Michael, and though Michael craved that release there was still a part of him that fought against losing what small bit of entitlement he still possessed. Legolas saw the fear in Michael's eyes, and without hesitation took him in a warm embrace.

            "Don't be thick," Michael heard him purr in his ear. The warm gust of breath tickled the hairs on his neck. "Cowards, the both of yer. Go tell him."

            Michael took a deep shuddering breath and tucked his face in the warm soft curve of Legolas' throat. The rich, piney smell surrounded him, reminded him of that moonlight hike up the mountain to Arizona. Like the pages of a book blown open by an errant breeze, the memories leafed past him – the touch of Francis' hand, the willingness to risk his life, the hinted assertions of his regard. Francis had talked around it in so many ways, and Michael had just sat back and lapped it up. "Coward" indeed! Legolas was right – again – Francis wasn't kidding. That was very irritating.

But he didn't want to be brave. He didn't want to screw up his courage to such a point, march across the cold deck to where he knew Francis was at the forecastle, blurt out those three ridiculous-sounding words, that would catapult him out of his comfortable compromise and into the indefinite caprices of Francis' psyche.

            _Have courage, Little Dreamer_ , whispered a voice in his head. Legolas appeared to have heard it too, because he stirred and pulled away, a wry expression on his face.

            "Him, too?" he murmured, his eyes alight.

            Well, that settled it. If the Valar were sticking their oars into it, Michael might as well reconcile himself to getting it over with, or he'd never get any peace. He took a deep breath, trying to will the recalcitrant courage into him. "I won't be a coward," he told himself firmly. "I'm going to be BRAVE." Perhaps if he said it over and over again, he'd start to believe it.

            "There you are then," said Legolas, patting his cheek and kissing him on the forehead. "Go on, now." He pulled Michael to his feet and helped him into his coat. He buttoned it up while Michael shakily pulled on his wet gloves, and then took the scarf down, wrapped it round Michael's neck, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. "Full speed ahead. Don't look back."

            Oddly enough, that last phrase made Michael want to turn around and look at him, but he knew what he'd see in any case – Legolas, beautiful Legolas, smiling, eyes twinkling and glowing alternately, stubborn and stiff-necked. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, but then at the back of his mind was that tickling pressure, as though Legolas had pushed him mentally. Yes, Francis had been right – do what Legolas says. With an inward grimace, Michael wrenched the door open and stepped out.

            The wind had picked up. The sails were luffing and booming, and bits of ice sprayed and stung him. Éowyn was working the mainsheet, and Éomer across from her at the boomvang. Their golden hair was torn and tossed in the gale. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, hurrying by them. The boom groaned, and the boat heeled again. Michael staggered, steadied himself, and worked his way forward.

He ducked under the shrouds and squinted into the spray. He could see Francis at the jib tack, lashing down one of the lines, looking out over the heaving ocean to the _Evenstar_ , which from this distance looked very small and lost in the white-capped swells, tipping at an alarming angle, though Michael was sure their position looked just as precipitous to any outside observers. He spared a brief thought to what Doris was doing just then (followed by a rather hectic wish she were by his side to cheer him on) and, when Francis turned in his direction, waved.

            Francis saw him, and instantly the scowl of concentration smoothed away. The eyebrows raised, eyes brightened, and mouth inverted to an inviting grin. Feeling a little better, Michael grinned shakily back, then, taking firm hold of the jib tack, worked his way up to him. He stepped carefully, not wanting to slip and bang his knee – should all go well, he'd probably need his knees to be as bruise-free as possible that evening – just that thought was enough to inspire some courage in him, and smiling at Francis as he approached, wondered how he was going to say it.

It was too noisy to shout it out now – though he was only twenty feet away, the racket and clatter of the sails, and the clamor of the wind and sea, drowned everything out. He would have to get close, right up to Francis' ear. That wouldn't be so bad. That would already imply an intimacy. He could just say it – no preliminaries, just blurt it out.

Would that sound childish? Michael paused worriedly. He didn't want it to sound childish. It was such an important thing to say. He went over the scenario in his head, contemplating the possible outcomes. No, under the circumstances it wouldn't sound childish, he concluded. Francis would recognize that, beneath this cacophony, brevity was necessary, and anyway to just say it would preclude any awkward hemming and hawing, which he knew Francis detested. Satisfied, he started up again, looking to Francis.

            Francis met his eye and smiled engagingly, then something above Michael's head seemed to catch his attention and he looked up and past him. The pleasant smile vanished as suddenly as it had come, to be replaced by a look of concern, melting into horror. Michael saw him mouth his name – _Michael!_ – then something caught him between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath out of him, and he seemed to fall, though it was taking a long time for him to hit the deck.

            His stomach dropped suddenly, and he realized with a horrible lurch that he was airborne. He saw the boat swing crazily beneath him, lines and sheets and sails all jumbled up. He tried to move his arms, but they were pinned to his sides. Something was wrapped around him. He twisted and felt rough canvas against his cheek. He was wrapped in a sail, and a loose sheet whipped around him. He was staring at the sky, at the roiling, boiling slate-gray mess, then his stomach reeled again and he fell.

            He tried to move to break his fall, but his arms were immobilized. He could see the glassy surface of the water rushing toward him and struggled to brace himself. It struck his head like a mallet and the cold was all around him.

It was sickening to sink like that, bound in a cocoon, sucked down. The icy hand of the water knocked the breath out of his lungs like a sledgehammer. He knew he shouldn't try to inhale, but his body screamed for oxygen. Salt water filled his mouth and eyes and there was a horrible booming noise pounding against his ears. He thought it was a heartbeat, but it was far too fast, too loud.

            He was buffeted, knocked about. The sail began to unwind and he tried to shake out of it. His lungs were bursting. He needed air. Kicking with his suddenly heavy boots, he tried to get to the surface. He could see it, could see it heaving and writhing silver-green above him, but he was at least ten feet down, and still sinking. He was too heavy. His boots and his coat were weighing him down. He tried to unfasten the coat snaps, but his gloved hands were stiff with cold. His fingers wouldn't work.

            A flash of white and surging foam. He saw a face, Legolas' face, blazing with anger, eyes blue-white and furious. long wool-clad arms stroked quickly, legs pumping, swimming down to him. Michael raised his hands – _save me, save me_ – above Legolas, resting on the mirrored pitching surface, a round white lifesaver – _save me, save me_ – his lungs were swelling, he needed air – Legolas reached down, their fingers touched.

            The surge was overwhelming, like a huge arm slashing past him, knocking him down further. Legolas snapped back, head whipped up, hair in a pale aureole, neon eyes glassy. His limbs relaxed and he began to float. Behind his sudden panic, Michael saw the bloody red cloud bloom around the slit in Legolas’ throat.

            Then arms took him, warm and comforting arms. He turned, wanting to say, _let me up, I need air_

            "Breathe, Dreamer. Breathe."

            Such a soft voice, such a kind voice. Wouldn't the water kill him?

            "No. Breathe. Listen to the drums. Come to the quiet. We yearn for you. Come rest with us. Come."

            He sucked it in, his lungs constricting horribly. The arms round his chest seemed to tighten. He was embraced, cherished, held, loved. He could feel the love, could feel the waves of concern, of pity. Could feel gentle fingers stroking his hair. "Yes. It's all right, Dreamer. Let go. It is over."

            Michael wasn't cold any more. He actually felt very warm, very relaxed. This wasn't so bad. It was quiet, except for the rhythmic booming. The water wasn't menacing; it was like a thick down comforter over him. He looked up toward the surface, fast receding. He could see other figures there, the lifesaver, the cloud of red. It was growing dark, and he could feel pressure on him, pushing him from all sides and angles, against his eyes, his ears, his stomach, his feet. And he sank, slowly, entwined in the warm green embrace, the voice crooned in his ear.

            "Sleep, Dreamer. Your pain is ended. All is well."

            It was true. Michael felt no pain, no cold, no fear. He was relaxed, calm. Was this Death? If so, it was nothing like he'd feared. Why had he been so afraid of Death, anyway? He was spiraling gracefully down, letting it drift over him. With the last injunction, "Sleep," he closed his eyes, and let the weight of the water crush his last fluttering heartbeat away.


	32. Waiting for Fea

  1. **Waiting for Fea**



 

 

            Michael was lying on his back. He could tell his eyes were closed, and that was fine with him. He was very comfortable, lying there, and didn't feel especially inclined to disrupt the warm restful peace he was currently experiencing with any kind of visual input. What a horrible nightmare – so realistic, too – he'd had Drowning Dreams before, but never one that vivid and frightening, never one that gripped at his chest and crushed him. But now he was contented, relaxed and happy. He was in no hurry to get up. He'd just lie there for a while and enjoy his torpor.

            "Here he comes, now."

            Who was that? He didn't recognize that voice.

            "About time."

            Nor that one. Was someone in his room?

            Perhaps he ought to open his eyes. Pity. He was so comfortable.

            He opened his eyes. There was a face hovering over him, an expression of concern on it. At first Michael thought it was Legolas, because of the long pale hair and pointed ears. Then he realized it couldn't possibly be Legolas – the face was distinctly different. The jaw squarer, the brows heavier. It looked obstinate and inclined to bad temper, but otherwise rather kind. Michael concluded it was the face of a pig-headed man with a warped sense of humor, who would just as soon greet you with a crushing hug as a quick fist, depending upon his mood. But the oddest thing about the face was that Michael could see through it, could see past the whole head to another person standing behind him.

            This person also had long flowing hair, but it seemed darker, if it were possible for translucence to be dark – rather it was less light, more shadowy. Michael looked back at the man leaning over him, puzzled. Why could he see through them? And what was that blue-white light that seemed to emanate from them, from the surface upon which Michael lay, from the very air itself? It was like television light, except that it didn't flicker. Where was he? Why were those two men transparent? Were they ghosts? At that thought, Michael came fully awake, and he started back, frightened.

            The man over him cocked his head, seeing Michael had come to, and his face broke into a sunny smile.

            "There we go!" he said encouragingly, and sat back on his heels and laughed. "See, look at that! Round ears, curly hair. I told you it was an Edan."

            The darker ghost gave a resentful sniff, tossing his dark hair over his shoulder. "I don’t see why Lord Námo dropped him HERE," he said, in a distinctively recognizable back-of-the-bus tone. He was slimmer than the first ghost, and dimmer somehow, as though the light were baffled by his dark complexion. He looked discontented and a little affronted. "We've never had Edain here before. This is _our_ territory."

            The fair ghost turned to him, an exasperated expression flashing across his face as suddenly as his smile had come.

            "Oh, don't start that up again. Honestly, twenty thousand years and you're still as big a pain in the ass as you were at Cormallen."

            "You're one to talk," said the dark ghost dryly, folding transparent arms over his chest and clanking somewhat. "You didn't even WANT to go help Elendil in the first place – "

            "Oh, cry me a river, Noldo." The fair ghost reached down to Michael with a translucent hand, giving him an apologetic grin. "Don't mind Gil-Galad. He still hasn't got over being dead. It's the indignity of it, you know."

            Michael tentatively grasped the hand with his own. It felt solid enough, though very cold. He looked down at their hands clasped together, and with a shock he realized his own hand was as clear as glass. He could see a faint white outline, but that was all. Before he could comment on this, the fair ghost pulled him up into a sitting position, and Michael looked around, curious to see where he'd ended up.

There wasn't much to see, just a white glassy floor, extending out to a horizon veiled in light, and the two ghosts, one squatting beside him, the other standing. They appeared to be wearing the tattered remnants of whatever clothing they had worn when they'd died – Gil-Galad, the darker one, was in rather battered see-through armor, and the fair ghost was wearing a ripped leather jerkin and leggings. Michael looked down at himself. He was clad in his jeans and turtleneck sweater, though they looked a little worse for wear, and like everything else, he could see right through his clothes, right through himself to the shining floor.

            "What am I doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

            "That's what I'd like to know," said Gil-Galad, regarding him coolly, his dark eyes hooded. "You're not supposed to be here. This is where the Eldar reside."

            The fair ghost turned back to him. "Don't keep harping on that," he said irritably, his heavy pale brows furrowing over his bright eyes. "Don't you think if we could choose where we go, that I'd be anywhere but here with you? Ilúvatar above, to spend eternity with an arrogant, stuck up, holier-than-thou, condescending – "

            "Oropher – "

            " – pompous, supercilious, high-and-mighty – "

            "Oropher!"

            " – conceited, sanctimonious prig like you – "

            "Wait – " said Michael desperately, not wanting them to quarrel on his account. But the dark ghost just shook his head and gave a twisted caustic smile.

            "You might as well get used to it," he said sardonically, flicking his dark glance to Michael. He unfolded his arms and examined his fingernails, somehow managing to infuse a supercilious tinge into his echoey voice. "I think 'Sindar' is a sacred word for 'short-tempered.' "

            "Oh, fuck off."

            "Foul-mouthed, as well. I hope that doesn't offend you?" He turned to Michael politely, as though he were the host at a high-class garden party.

            "Uh," said Michael, nonplussed. He had always associated ghosts with Portents of Doom or Warnings of Imminent Danger, not petty bickering. He found it a little anticlimactic, as though he had been offered less than he had bargained for. Not surprising, really, for Michael had rarely contemplated denizens of The Great Beyond before this point. He didn't even like ghost stories.

            The fair ghost sat back on his hands and grinned up at Gil-Galad impudently. There was the hint of a dimple in that luminous skin. It reminded Michael of something that he couldn't quite recall. Why should a dimple nag at his memory so?

            "And that, friend, is how you silence a Noldo," Oropher said smugly.

            "What, drown him out with insults?" snorted Gil-Galad. Oropher glared at him.

            "Look," said Michael anxiously. "I, um, I'm not sure what I'm doing here – "

            "You're dead," interrupted Oropher with a grin. Gil-Galad rolled his eyes again.

            " _Must_ you be so tactless?"

            "Yes," said Oropher pertly. "It's part of my charm." He turned to Michael with a smile. "Like I said, you're dead, like we are. You can't really come here without being dead – I mean, you _can_ , but it's not done often – Lord Námo frowns on it." He paused, contemplating Michael casually, his eyes twinkling. "Been a long time since we had any fresh blood down here – and we've never had an Edan before – shame, really. I happen to like you guys, despite Mr. Cold and Snorty over there. " Gil-Galad made an indignant noise of protest, but Oropher talked him down. "I don't know why Lord Námo put you here, and I'm not sure what you did to deserve this somewhat spurious honor, but I, for one, am willing to extend the hand of friendship and welcome you to the Halls of Mandos."

            He held out his hand to Michael again, and Michael heard Gil-Galad murmur sardonically, "Nicely put."

            "Um," said Michael, feeling very out of his depth. He wished he knew exactly what he was supposed to do – none of his mother's etiquette lessons seemed to extend to Ghost Disputes. He shook Oropher's hand tentatively. It was strange, grasping something nearly invisible, and sensing no physical warmth in the handshake.

            "You might as well shake Gil-Galad's hand too," said Oropher, pulling him effortlessly to his feet. "Otherwise he'll get all shirty. There you are," he said, giving Michael a little push toward the darker ghost, who straightened and gave a restrained smile. "Gil-Galad, this is – um – " He looked back at Michael, cocking his head artlessly. "Who are you, anyway?"

            "Michael," said Michael in a small voice, holding out a shaking hand to the tall, remote ghost before him. The ghost gave an aloof smile and took his hand in his own.

            "My … shell," said Oropher carefully. He frowned. "No – My … kell. Yes, that's it, My-Kell, right?"

            "I think," said Gil-Galad fastidiously, releasing Michael's hand, "he pronounced it My-Kull."

            "Was the accent on the My or the Kull?"

            "I think it was on the My."

            "MY-Kull … is that it?"

Both ghosts turned to him, politely inquisitive. Michael swallowed and whispered, "Yes."

            "What does it mean?" asked Gil-Galad, raising his eyebrows.

            "And what language is it?" added Oropher.

            "I – I don't know," stammered Michael, confused. Why were they making such a fuss over his name? Didn't they have anything better to do?

            Then it hit him – they didn't. Neither did he. "Twenty thousand years," Oropher had said. It was likely they'd run out of conversational topics by this time, and anything new was welcome. Twenty thousand years with these two – it was enough to make him want to find his "proper" place, where Edain like himself stayed. "Although," he thought a little anxiously, "I mightn't find a true place for myself there, either."

            The two ghosts looked a tad disappointed at his linguistic ignorance, and Oropher shrugged.

            "Oh, it doesn't matter," he said, waving one shining hand. "I was only curious. It's a nice name – MY-Kull. Rolls off the tongue. Better than Mithlinálwi, anyway."

            "And Hwindiö."

            "Yes, those were pretty bad. Oh! Do you remember Liquíseleé? I don't think she ever forgave her parents for that one."

            The two ghosts laughed, Oropher throwing his head back and giving a brash shout, Gil-Galad sniggering in a refined manner behind one pale hand.

            "Yes," said Gil-Galad with a smile. "That was moderately awful. Come, let's sit down. It's not exactly tiring standing up, since technically we don't have muscles and bones any more, but it simulates ease and might inspire us to further conversation."

            "And since conversation's about all we've got left," added Oropher over his shoulder as he turned away, "we might as well get to it." He grinned. "Don't rush us, now. We've got ages to find out all about you."

            "Okay," said Michael. He hoped he would be interesting enough to keep them occupied for a while.

            He followed the two ghosts to what looked like a small house-like structure. It too glowed with the same blue-white light, and set about its front entrance were two chairs. Michael stared at it, puzzled. He was fairly certain it hadn't been there before. Where had it come from?

            "We need another chair," said Oropher rather loudly, and instantly a third chair appeared, deep and plush, glowing blue, with widely curving arms. Michael gaped at it in amazement, but the two ghosts didn't seem to think it was very odd. They just sat down comfortably, and Oropher patted the seat of the spontaneously generated chair beside him.

            "Have a seat," he invited, crossing one long leg over the other. "We might be dead, but that doesn't mean we can't be comfortable."

            "A glass of wine would be nice," said Gil-Galad a little wistfully, stretching his armor-clad legs out in front of him. Oropher sighed.

            "Yes indeed – that sweet white wine from the lower valleys of Hollin – remember?"

            "Mm, and the stewed bass we had on the banks of the stream, what was it called – "

            "I can't remember. And anyway it might have a different name now, it's been twenty millennia, after all. Michael, do you know the stream that runs through Hollin, by the Dwarf-keep of Moria?" Oropher turned to Michael, obviously fully expecting an answer.

Michael stared blankly at him. What on earth were they talking about? He knew geography had never been his best subject, but he was pretty positive he'd never learned those names before.

            "I've never heard of it," he confessed.

            "No?" Oropher looked surprised, but Gil-Galad snorted.

            "Twenty millennia, Oropher," he said dryly. "A lot can change in that many years. River beds, ocean coasts, glaciers – "

            "Oh, blow it out your ass." Oropher sighed. "Good bass, though."

            The two ghosts fell into a reverie, and Michael watched them, fascinated. So. They were dead. They LOOKED dead, all wispy and see-through and glowy. Even their clothes wisped a little, little tattered edges floating and whirling in the stillness. And their hair and skin – like wax paper with light behind it. Milky and translucent. No wonder ghosts scared people. And Michael, himself – he was dead, too, apparently. He looked down at himself. Yes, just as see-through. He touched his jeans, pale and transparent. They still felt rough beneath his fingers, still felt like denim.

            "I suppose I'll be wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater for All Eternity," he thought resignedly to himself. A shame he looked so ratty … why on earth couldn't he have died in his Giorgio Armani tux? Or even the Versace suit …

            It came back to him then – the green sucking dark, the crushing weight of water. Legolas, limp and bleeding. The soothing voice of Ossë. Even though he knew he technically didn't have a heart any more, he could feel it sink like cold lead. He was dead. Dead. And he was no Alien, like these two. Wasn't even like Legolas. He wouldn't go back. He was deceased, dead and gone, and would never see Francis or his family again.

            Whatever was in his chest twisted, a great gripping wrench. He never got to see Pauline. He would never see his mother again. And he never – never – got to tell Francis he loved him –

            His throat tightened, and he felt his eyes sting. How could he cry, being dead? Ridiculous – ghosts didn't cry, did they? But the sob took him by surprise anyway, heaving his shoulders and breaking its way out his chest. He was dead, and he had left Francis unsure of his feelings. Francis would go to his own grave, having never known how much Michael had loved him – still loved him. He would never forgive himself.

            He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Oropher. Long strong fingers gripped him tightly, shaking him a little. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the icy tears roll down his cheeks. Then someone put strong cool arms around him and held him tight against a hard cold chest. Michael opened his eyes and saw through the haze of tears the lucent shadowy hair. Why on earth would this proud, stilted ghost comfort him? Was all that irritability just an act?

            "Whom did you leave behind?" Gil-Galad whispered into his ear. It was odd to hear the voice that close, yet to not feel the warm stir of breath.

            "Everyone," sobbed Michael. "My mother and father, my sister, her children – "

            Gil-Galad pulled back. He was squatting on the chair before Michael, resting his armored arms on his knees. He clinked a little when he shifted. Michael was surprised to see in his stern face an expression of deep compassion, mingled somewhat with a remote sorrow.

            "We all left loved ones behind," he said.

            To his right Michael could feel Oropher, still squeezing his shoulder, trying desperately to communicate support and empathy. "Straight, definitely," Michael thought distractedly to himself. "Gil-Galad, I'm not so sure." It was hard to tell – straight men, in Michael's experience, didn't usually hug other men and found it difficult to empathize, but then again, Legolas was straight …

He caught himself wondering what sort of thing he'd done, that the Valar would send him to this place – not Heaven, certainly – but obviously not really Hell – Purgatory? – with those not of his kind, with Aliens. Perhaps Legolas' influence over him had been deeper than he'd thought – or maybe it had something to do with his Dreaming. At any rate, he wasn't unhappy with the arrangement – dead or not, Oropher and Gil-Galad made very pretty ghosts, and visual aesthetics looked to be about the only substance he would be able to appreciate now. That, and conversation, of course. He might be making a fool of himself, but at least he wasn't being Boring.

            "It all happened so suddenly," Michael said, gulping back more sobs, trying not to be Irritating. Though it didn't seem to bother the other two ghosts any. Even Oropher was regarding him with sober attention. Apparently they had grown beyond the big-boys-don't-cry stage. That was comforting. "I didn't have any warning – I never got to say good-bye to anybody – "

            "Well, that's not always so bad," said Gil-Galad with a crooked smile. He looked almost bitter. "Knowing you're going to die precludes all those long and tedious farewells – usually among people with whom you would rather not share intimate moments."

            "How cynical of you, Gil-Galad!" chided Oropher gently. He turned to Michael, regarding him sympathetically. "I know," he said, patting Michael's shoulder. "It's pretty bad at first. I had to leave my wife, you know, and my son, and I never even met my grandson – he was born while I was away, trying to pull Elendil's nuts out of the fire. I'd've given anything to say good-bye to them." He gestured to the still-kneeling Gil-Galad with his chin. "Don't mind this misanthropist. He was born with a kink in his soul. Not that he can help it," he added, giving Michael a quick, surreptitious wink. "All the Noldor are like that – gloomy."

            Gil-Galad turned to Oropher, a look of indignation on his face. "Why must you constantly deride the Noldor?" he demanded, exasperated. He got to his feet, clanking a little in his ghostly armor. "Your daughter-in-law's a Noldo, you know."

            "It's not my fault Thranduil married beneath himself. Up the Sindar! I was born in the crotch of a tree and I'm damn proud of it."

            "Galadriel's a Noldo," said Gil-Galad sullenly.

            "And she married a Sinda," retorted Oropher. Then, to Michael's amazement, Oropher stuck his tongue out at Gil-Galad.

            The sight was so comical, such a juxtaposition to what he had expected out of two men who were 1. Aliens, and 2. Over Twenty Millennia Old, he let out a breathy giggle. He glanced at Gil-Galad, who gave Michael a look so full of disgusted long-suffering he felt a little better. Twenty millennia together might have been difficult on these two very dissimilar people, but at least it afforded him a little amusement. It was entirely possible, after all, that Michael would be there another twenty millennia. He might as well be Suitably Entertained.

            As though Gil-Galad could read his mind, the dark ghost put his hand on Michael's head and gave him a smile that, while not being warm, was far from unfriendly.

            "It's a bumpy ride, here with us," he said. "But not a boring one."

            Michael tried to sniffle. It was hard, considering he couldn't really breathe. "Well," he said, wiping the cold tears from his cheeks, "I'm kind of used to bumpy rides. I was on a ship when I died, after all."

            "Were you, really?" Gil-Galad seemed to brighten at that, a ray of light igniting the cool features. "What kind of ship? How big was it?"

            Oropher gave a noisy sigh and muttered something that sounded like "Show-off," but Michael replied eagerly, wanting to tell them about _The_ _White Lady_ : "Oh, a really, really big ship! Two hundred fifty feet, with high rails and a high white prow with a gilt figurehead of an angel and white sails and teak flooring and everything was new and so nice, much nicer than the _Evenstar_ , though that was a nice ship too, and the cabins were so comfortable, with big beds and lots of room – "  
            "How many did she carry?" asked Gil-Galad eagerly. "A ship that size – "

            "There were six of us," said Michael, warming to the topic. "But she could hold so much more. And she was such an easy ship to sail – big, but responsive, you know – "

            "Did you fall off?" asked Oropher caustically, obviously not as interested in the conversation as Gil-Galad.

            His companion shot him an irritated look, but Michael said indignantly, "NO, I did NOT 'fall off.' I was FLUNG."

            " 'Flung'?" Both Gil-Galad and Oropher looked at him in surprise. Oropher gave a disbelieving smile.

            "Who flung you?" He frowned and pinched his brow. "Flang? What's the past tense of 'to fling,' anyway?"

            "Never mind that," said Gil-Galad impatiently. "Let's get to the good part. You were murdered, then?" His eyes lit up in unholy enthusiasm. "I haven't met a murder victim in … oh, ages! Not since Elladan blew through, after he was caught cheating on Haldir."

            "He explained that one away pretty well, didn't he?" asked Oropher dryly. "All that 'finding himself' and 'exploring his psyche.' A bunch of crap, I called it. What I say is, if you're going to cheat, you ought to expect a knife in your back, or what good's being faithful?"

            "As I understood it," said Gil-Galad meticulously, "there was some psychological reason for his infidelity."

            "Yes – what was it he was telling us about, Maslow's theory of self-actualization or hierarchy or something?"

            "Maybe. To be honest I wasn't paying that much attention to him."

            "Yeah, me neither. He could go on, couldn't he? Like his father, blah blah blah."

            "You never did like Elrond – oh, forget it," Gil-Galad exclaimed, waving his hands in frustration. He turned to Michael, who was watching them with great interest, still a little flabbergasted, but DEFINITELY not Bored. "I apologize, Michael, we tend to get off the subject a lot – and why shouldn't we?" he added, raising his eyebrows. "It's not as though we're under a time-constraint to finish our conversations. Please, go on. You were flung from this marvelous boat into the water and drowned. Who – " he turned to Oropher, his dark eyes contemplative. "I believe the word IS 'flung' – who flung you, Michael, and why?"

            "I don’t know WHY he flung me," admitted Michael, "but I know he did it, because I saw him. It was Ossë."

            His words dropped like a heavy stone into the conversation, silencing both Gil-Galad and Oropher with the flabbergasting announcement. Michael found the shocked and disbelieving stares from the two ancient alien ghosts to be quite gratifying. It had almost been worth dying just to see it.

            After several awkward moments Gil-Galad cleared his throat. Oropher was still gaping at him. "Excuse me," said Gil-Galad politely. "I don't mean to, er, question you. But you can't – possibly – mean – _the_ Ossë – can you?"

            "I only know one Ossë," said Oropher a little flatly, his eyes stunned. "And if it's the Ossë I'm thinking of – "

            The two ghosts stared at each other, comprehension dawning on their faces. "Fuck it all," said Oropher. "We got the Dreamer."


	33. We Three Kings

  1. **We Three Kings**



 

 

            The most startling thing, to Michael's mind, about the whole Dreamer Revelation was Gil-Galad's instantaneous capitulation regarding Michael's status. Gone was the haughty attitude, the inference that Michael was in some way inferior to them. Instead he regarded Michael with a kind of amused respect, far from the withdrawn tolerance of his prior manner. His comments gentled, and Michael didn't feel quite so apprehensive.

            Oropher, having been friendly from the outset, became even more effusive, congratulating Michael on his elevated rank with a hearty hand-shake and enthusiastically peppering him with questions about Michael's Dreams and what they entailed. Amidst Michael's perplexity, he wondered why they should even think that he was significant in any way. What, after all, were dreams and visions? But to Oropher and Gil-Galad, they appeared to have great importance.

            "The Dreamer's always an Edan, of course," Oropher excitedly explained, waving his arms in their tattered tunic about. "It stayed the same for a while – some fellow of Númenorean descent, he hung on for a long time – then he quit or something, and it got passed around quite a bit – you remember, Gil-Galad, there was that Cassandra girl – "

            "Yes," said Gil-Galad urbanely, hooking his hands about his crossed knees. "And someone named Ezekiel – "

            "And that oracle from Delphi – "

            "What about Nostradamus?" broke in Michael curiously. One of his guilty pleasures was to surreptitiously read the covers of the tabloids at the grocery store while he waited in line to check out, and that was the only person he could think of that would fit the job description.

            "Never heard of him," said Oropher offhandedly. Gil-Galad shrugged and shook his head.

            "No, that doesn't sound familiar. Oh, remember Mother Shipton – "

            "That woman gave me the creeps. Was I happy to see her out of the way – "

            "I quite liked Arthur Conan Doyle," said Gil-Galad thoughtfully, rubbing his smooth pale cheek with one hand. "A bit pompous, but he had a lot of foresight."

            "At least he wasn't fucking loopy, like that aboriginal fellow."

            Gil-Galad smiled. "Hm. Yes, he was a bit odd, wasn't he?"

            Oropher snorted. "Odd? I'll say he was odd. Cuddling trees! I'm a Sindar and even I don't go that far."

            "You astonish me," said Gil-Galad dryly, and Oropher stuck out his tongue at him again. Gil-Galad gave a crooked smile and turned back to Michael. "So. Now that we've effectively interrupted anything of import you might have to say, tell us how you became the Dreamer."

            "Yes," said Oropher eagerly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His pale eyes were very bright. "What was your first dream? What did you see?"

            Michael opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Gil-Galad's indignant, "Don't rush him!" combined with his whacking Oropher on the leg with the back of one hand. "Let him start at the beginning. It'll make more sense that way."

            "The first dream IS the beginning," argued Oropher, hitting Gil-Galad back, but harder than Gil-Galad had hit him. His transparent hand made a muffled clang on Gil-Galad's arm.

            "No, it isn't," said Gil-Galad petulantly. Oropher's blow didn't seem to bother him. Michael wondered if ghostly armor were as effective as the real stuff. "There's background – where he's from, any psychic episodes in his immediate family – "

            "Only psychotic," said Michael, bemused and a trifle distracted, his mind on his Aunt Edna. He couldn't remember anyone notably mystical or spiritual in his family, though they did seem to have more than their fair share of rude and strong-willed women, especially on his mother's side. Gil-Galad looked shocked, but Oropher only gave a cackle of laughter.

            "There's at least one in each family," he reassured Michael, clapping him on the shoulder. "You should've met my father – "

            "No, he shouldn't. I think we're quite distressing enough to his psyche. Look at the poor fellow, Oropher. Can't you tell we're confusing him?"

            "Well – " began Michael, somewhat embarrassed, but Oropher interrupted angrily,

            "Don't be so damn condescending, you Noldo twit – if Irmo chose him as Dreamer, he's damn well strong enough to put up with the likes of us." He set his jaw, and the dimple, already threatened by his temper, disappeared rather definitively.

            "But – " said Michael. Gil-Galad waved impatiently at him and turned to Oropher, his shadowy eyes flashing. "I'm not saying he's not strong enough, you back-woods hick, just that we might be too overwhelming – "

            "Oh, who's the hick now? I dare you to disparage Doriath – "

            "Wait – " said Michael, a little desperately, but the two ghosts were obviously far gone in their dispute. He sat back, his head in his hands. It was very odd to feel cold skin beneath his palms, and his hair tickled the backs of his fingers. He sighed. Would he be stuck with these two malcontents FOREVER? He listened half-heartedly to them wrangle together, their quarrel blotting out his novelty.

"At least we're not bored," he thought resignedly, and tried to sigh, though it was difficult, since he didn't have lungs.

            " – not my fault your kind disdained Valinor – "

            " – can't believe you're bringing that up now, that wasn't even my fault – "

            " – less-enlightened but still our brothers – "

            " – don't give me that bullshit! You Noldor have been lording it over us for millennia – "

            Michael sat back in his chair. It seemed to give beneath him, though he knew he lacked any weight. It was as though the chair knew how it was supposed to feel and mimicked that, disdaining the reality of his nonexistence. "This is very Zen," he thought, looking out over the landscape while the two ghosts on either side of him argued. It was obviously an old feud, never resolved, and as Michael neither knew nor cared about the origins of this ancient hostility, he simply blocked them out and tried to figure out where he was.

            Mandos – the Halls of Mandos. He had heard that before – something about Death, something about a lord named Námo. So … he was dead. He thought about that. "I must've drowned," he thought, trying to think back. The water, the crushing weight, Legolas bleeding – "Poor Legolas," he thought, feeling very guilty. "Going to all that trouble trying to save me. Though I don't know why he bothered," he added, putting his fingers in his ears to block out the rising volume of the quarrel currently raging on either side of him. "I TOLD Manwë I was okay with dying. Why did Legolas have to keep FIGHTING him?"

            He thought about Ossë and Ulmo, thought about what it had felt like, being accepted and embraced by them. He had felt no fear, no distress, no pain, no apprehension in their presence. It was as though he had read their eagerness to take him into their depths, and consented to them joyfully, receiving Death like a precious gift. And now – he was here, wherever "here" was. He wasn't intellectually equipped to handle the mental wrangle concerning alternate universes, and hoped "here" was an actual, physical location.

            The landscape was, to his weakened eyes, a blank at first, but the longer he stared into the blue-white glow the more he could discern – a shape now and then, some moving, some stationary. A darkness about a corner somewhere, or a brighter bit of light. "There must be hundreds of thousands of people here," he thought bemusedly, thinking about how many generations could be born and die out in twenty millennia. "Where are they all?"

            "I'll bet you anything that he's not," Oropher's voice broke in. The ghost had grasped Michael by the arm, startling him into paying attention to what was going on beside him.

            "And I'll bet YOU anything he is," Gil-Galad answered, just as heatedly. He stuck his jaw out pugnaciously. Michael realized the dark ghost had finally lost his temper.

            "What?" said Michael, taking his fingers out of his ears. It hadn't helped all that much, anyway. Just muffled the noise somewhat. "I – "

            "He can't be – you can see the strength – "

            "Oh, like they can't be strong – "

            "But there's a yin side of them – "

            "There you go again, and you call _me_ prejudiced – "

            "I didn't say it was a bad thing, I just said that – "

            "Oh, to hell with this," exclaimed Gil-Galad in frustration, thrusting his thin fingers through the wispy dark hair. "Let's just _ask_ him."

            "Fucking hell!" yelled Oropher. His luminous face was dark with anger. "Like we're just going to fucking _ask_ him if he's a sodomite – "

            If Michael had had a heart, it would've sunk at that moment. Now it would come out – HE would Come Out – he didn't realize it was possible to Come Out after death – these two odd Alien ghosts would find out what he was, find out he was Gay, and they would turn their backs on him – and then where would he go? Out into Mandos, to find more of these Alien Dead, who would reject him too? He wondered if he should lie – he wondered if he were even CAPABLE of lying in this place – he wondered what being Gay had to do with Dreaming – he made a noise, a protesting squeak, and Gil-Galad's bright angry gaze focused on him.

            "I'll ask him, then," he said. He sounded very exasperated. "Michael – "

            "We had a bet – " Oropher interrupted, banging his fist on the arm of his chair. It made no noise, which Michael thought was odd.

            "And I bet that he is."

            "Bet he isn't."

            "Is."

            "Isn't, damn you to hell!"

            "Too late. Námo beat you to it. Michael," said Gil-Galad, turning to him, his face alight with a sort of malicious glee, "you only need to answer yes or no – "

            "Wait!" Oropher leapt to his feet. His eyes were bright with delight and anticipation. He laughed, an almost manic sound. "We'll ask questions – we'll play Yes-and-No. It'll be a game – "

            Gil-Galad also brightened. All the anger faded and his countenance became almost brilliant in its happiness. "A game!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping his hands. "What a tremendous idea! We haven't had a game in – let's see – "

            "Well, it was when whats-his-name came through, the one with the funny accent – "

            "Rúmil, wasn't it?"

            "Yes, that's it – we kept asking why he was wearing a big poofy collar and had a hatchet in his backside – "

            "A game!" Oropher danced a little, his dimple very much in evidence again. "Michael, Michael, we're going to play a game! Oh, it's been centuries – all right, this is my first question – "

            "Wait a moment," said Gil-Galad irritably. "it was my idea, I get to ask the first question – "

            "Oh, you always ruin it," said Oropher, his lower lip pouting out. "You ask the most obvious questions and then you get the answer and then I never get to ask anything."

            "Stop sulking. It's more efficient this way."

            "I – " Michael desperately wanted to stop them, to tell them it wasn't a game to decide his sexual orientation, that it was too serious, but the two other ghosts were back to their argument, completely forgetting about him. He rolled his eyes, and reflected that Eternity certainly seemed to wreak havoc on one's attention span.

            "Then again," he thought, "if they're making a game out of it, maybe my sexual orientation doesn't matter all that much to them, after all." He wondered if they would mind spending Eternity with a gay ghost, and if he might be able to meet other homosexual spirits out there somewhere. "It's not COMPLETELY out of the realm of speculation," he thought contemplatively, then his attention, already wandering away from the Perpetual Argument occurring around him, was caught by the sight of something not glowy – not pale – not shadowy – drifting towards them – something rather darkish, with a clear sharp outline. Something solid, something –

            -- alive?

            "Hey," he said, trying to get his companions' attention, but they had degenerated to name-calling, shaking their fingers in each others' faces and coming up with what Michael was sure were wildly improbable speculations concerning each other’s' genetic backgrounds. He looked back at the figure. It appeared to be approaching them. It was long, narrow, upright. It seemed to move with an even rocking gait, which Michael recognized as a walk. Something – was out there – and it was walking towards them.

The light seemed to shrink from it, and yet it was not dark. It was merely not-light. It was Other, more Alien than the ghosts with which he sat. Its edges were crisp, not wispy. There was something else – oh yes, color, Michael remembered the word now – no blue-white glow this. There was an effulgence about it, a golden-brightness like a tall slim daffodil, clad in sinuous green and garlanded with a brilliant yellow crown.

            He watched as the figure came closer, fascinated by the sudden shocking shades engendered. The nearer the figure came, the more he could make out – the dazzling golden hair bound back by a thin jeweled circlet. The vivid green clothing, like a tunic over close-cut trousers. The brown leather boots engraved and buffed to a bright shine. And the eyes – a silver-gray deeper even than Arwen's, kindled from within by some secret inner jest, the rosy mouth twisted into a wry smile. The stranger watched Michael as he came closer, met his eyes, pinned him there, while the two distracted ghosts argued back and forth.

            When the newcomer was about ten yards off, Gil-Galad noticed him, and looked, his vituperation faltering. Oropher, seeing his surprise, stopped and looked too. But instead of the startled stare he laughed, even louder than before, and exclaimed –

            "Ah! Thranduil! My beloved son," he said, and extending his arms strode up to the stranger. The Live One smiled warmly, regarding his sire with a deep tenderness, and responded evenly,

            "My Lord Father."

            He bowed, and Oropher took him by the shoulders, his pale hands shimmering. The two men embraced, and Michael glanced back at Gil-Galad. The dark ghost stood quietly enough, his eyes wary. The wind seemed to have gone out of his sails. He and Michael waited for the two others to complete their greeting. Michael was very interested in watching them and comparing them – it was Interesting to see how sons resembled, or rather, DIDN'T resemble, their fathers – despite the difference in color and the undeniable fact that Thranduil was Alive and Oropher Dead, there was a definite similarity there – the shape of the jaw, perhaps, or the curve of that sweet pink mouth with its pale dimple, like a dent in thick cream –

            Then Michael remembered, remembered the dream, the vision, the dimple. "Ada!" he exclaimed in surprise, echoing Legolas' cry. Thranduil turned to him with a smile. Oropher and Gil-Galad looked startled.

            "He's not your father," said Gil-Galad, scandalized.

            "That is unfortunately true. I am not," admitted Thranduil. He moved away from Oropher and came up to Michael. He was beautiful – resplendent – gold and polished bronze and sparkling citrine. Michael could feel the heat of his livingness, shimmering like waves of fire off his skin. It almost burned him, and made him appreciate how cold he really was. He looked up at the tall slim Alien, and realized what Legolas had meant, realized why the dimple kept nagging at him. This one, Thranduil, was Legolas' father – which meant, of course, that Oropher was his grandfather. It was very odd, thought Michael, that the Valar would play such games with him. Then again, going to Purgatory with a "friend-of-a-friend" was better than being thrown in with perfect strangers.

            But why – why – had Legolas' father, obviously still living, come to him here? That Oropher recognized him and didn't see it as overtly bizarre was a Question in and of itself. Was the boundary between Living and Dead so tenuous? Then Thranduil, regarding Michael with tender affection, reached up to cup Michael's face in his hands.

            Michael trembled, thinking the hands of this living Alien would burn him, but the touch of the fingers on his face was soothing, a tingling warmth. "Beloved Dreamer," said Thranduil, his face kind. "it is no shameful thing to call me by my paternal appellation. You heard my own son, my only son, whom I love, speak to me in that fashion. And as you love him, it is agreeable for you to call me by that name as well."

            Michael stared up at Thranduil, mind awhirl. Not only was this Alien fully informed as to Michael's _bona fides,_ not only had he bridged the gap between World and Underworld, not only did he carry so entrancingly within himself a sense of authority like a hidden rod of iron, not only was he radiant, resplendent, like some wayward wandering sun come to grace a pale dawn with its intense brilliance, but he had accepted Michael as a cherished child, with no question or any stinting of protective affection. A flood of grateful veneration rushed through him, almost like the living blood finding its place in his body once more, and had he still possessed a heart it would have turned over. He didn't need to ask. He didn't need to question. This man loved him, received him as a sort of surrogate son. It lay on his skin, it reflected from his mirrored eyes.

            And it explained Legolas, too – that brash self-assurance, that concrete grounding that kept the Alien poised and secure amid the wild, rocking, helter-skelter madness of his life. It was a purity of purpose and mutual approval, a conjunction of paternal and filial duty that was at once obligation and pleasure, vocation and delight, unity not of thought but of intention, voiceless yet evident, even to one such as he. He thought of his own father, gruff, disapproving, judgmental, and of the vast gulf between them, and wished for the first time that he were an Alien as well as a homosexual.

            "He knows my little Legolas?" Oropher interrupted in amazement, looking at Michael with growing pleasure. He shot Gil-Galad a smug look and added, "My grandson, the Listener – the highest elevation of rank given to any of the Chosen – barring Mithrandir, of course," he added reluctantly, as though this were a difficult concession.

Gil-Galad didn't seem to want to respond to this beyond a rather extravagant eye-roll, which seemed to convey to Michael he had heard all of this before, _ad nauseum_ , world without end, amen.

            Then it struck him – twenty thousand years – three generations – which would make Legolas … how old?

            Well. Immortal Aliens Living Among Us, indeed. This was better than the last episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

            "Yes, Lord Father," Thranduil said, smiling at Oropher, who was grinning, gloating, at Michael. "He is among them now, and though not counted as one of their number, is beloved of the Steward."

            "Hah!" said Gil-Galad suddenly, whacking Oropher on the shoulder. "I _told_ you he was homosexual." Oropher just scowled back at him.

            "And it is for that reason I have come," continued Thranduil. "I have been sent by my Lord Manwë to fetch him to the gates of Valinor, where he will be taken back within the circle of Arda, so that he might complete the tasks appointed him."

            Michael stared at him. What on earth did THAT mean? But the look of dismay on both Oropher's and Gil-Galad's faces was eloquent of their unhappiness with this turn of events. "What, already?" Oropher exclaimed, looking very hurt. "He just _got_ here. You can't take him away from us _now_."

            "Have mercy on us, King of Greenwood," added Gil-Galad, a pleading, wheedling tone to his milky voice. "We were only just starting to get to know him, and no one new has come through in ages."

            "You don't want us to get bored, do you?" demanded Oropher a little indignantly. "Some son you are – no, really, Thranduil, don't take him. I like him so much. He's such a good conversationalist."

            "How would you know?" broke in Michael, pleased with the accolades but still horribly confused. "You've hardly let me get a word in edgewise."

            "You've kept your mouth closed and let me talk," retorted Oropher with a wink. "I call that pretty good conversation."

            "Your interpretation of the phrase leaves a lot to be desired," said Gil-Galad tartly.

            "Oh, shove it."

            "Come, Beloved Dreamer," said Thranduil to Michael, shooting the two contentious ghosts an amused look. "It is time. Let us not keep my lord waiting."

            He slipped his hand round Michael's arm. It was so hot it nearly burned his skin. He turned, and led Michael away from the pale house with its spurious chairs. Michael glanced back at the two ghosts. Gil-Galad and Oropher stood by their house, both looking mournfully after him. He waved and gave them a small smile.

            Then he and Thranduil began to approach something – Michael was sure it hadn't been there before – it was a gate of some sort, large, imposing, shimmering slightly. Michael looked up at it with a shudder. It seemed very foreboding, this gate. It was dark and solid and very obviously meant to keep someone out – or in. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what was on the other side, even if by some stretch Thranduil could open it. But then someone shouted behind him, and he and his companion turned. It was Oropher, and he was running up to them, looking anxious.

            "When you really do die," he said to Michael, "I want you to be sure to come back here, and not go mixing up with all those Edain. All right?"

            Thranduil laughed, and Michael gave the unhappy ghost a comforting smile. "I'll do my best," he promised, and Oropher's answering grin was the last thing he saw before the gates yawned open and swept him away.        


	34. Psalm 18:16

  1. **Psalm 18:16**



 

 

            They weren't walking, they were floating. There was no floor beneath their feet. In fact, there didn't seem to be ANYTHING down there – Michael looked, and saw a yawning, bottomless chasm beneath them, out of which came a cold erratic wind. It blew his curls about his face, and set his companion's golden hair winding about his head like so many charmed snakes. All around them were darkness and flashes of light that didn't so much illuminate as further obscure their surroundings. Michael clung to Thranduil's arm, desperately afraid of that heart-stopping plunge into nothingness, should the invisible force supporting them give way.

            "Be not so fearful, Little One," said Thranduil comfortingly, smiling down at him. "What, after all, shall you fear? Should you indeed descend the depths to Námo's lower halls, do you think you shall die once more at the bottom?"

            Michael thought about that. Could you die, if you weren't technically alive? "No, not really," he admitted, though he still held on to Thranduil's arm pretty tightly. "I know I can't die all over again, since I'm already dead. But I don't like falling, and I'm not sure I want to know what's at the bottom, way down there."

            To his surprise Thranduil laughed. It was the same brash bark that Michael had heard both Oropher and Legolas use. "I'll set your mind at ease then," he said, still chuckling. "We cannot fall, for it is Námo himself who sustains us. And we will not go to those nether-regions, for the rest of the Valar would not allow it. Patience! We shall pass through this hall soon."

            Michael wondered how he could tell. It didn't appear to him as though they were moving at all. He looked behind them. The gate through which they had been so precipitously whisked was gone. This didn't surprise him as much as it probably would have in life. His brief stay in Mandos had shown him that most of what his eyes saw was illusory. The gate, he mused, was most likely nothing but a ghostly symbol of the egress from Death to Life.

            "Am I really going to be alive again?" he asked. It was exciting to think of it, of seeing everyone again – Doris and Francis and Lottie and Legolas – though, to be perfectly honest with himself, he admitted he wasn't looking forward to the biting cold of the Arctic Circle that much. Mandos may not have been balmy, but at least he hadn't frozen his ass off.

            He looked over at Thranduil. The Alien was biting his lip, that sweet curve of pink flesh, so like his son's, so like his father's. It was astonishing that Michael hadn't recognized those features immediately, having spent – rather shamefully – many hours admiring those rosebud lips set in Legolas' smooth white face. Thranduil looked thoughtful, and a little worried. He turned to Michael, his gray eyes serious.

            "I will tell you this much, O Beloved Dreamer," he said soberly. "Though Námo has relented, Ulmo and Ossë have not. Manwë is at odds with his brother, and though I bring to bear all the strength and magic and power I have, within me and borrowed from my lord, it may not be sufficient to send you back."

            Michael's heart sank at his words, but he could tell Thranduil wasn't one to accept defeat graciously, so he said, "Well, that wouldn't be so bad either. I mean, I could always go back to your father and Gil-Galad. I never actually got to SAY anything to them, and it was a shame to leave them alone like that. So don't feel bad," he said, smiling up at Thranduil. "If we don't make it, don't worry about me." He paused and frowned. "What about you?" he asked anxiously. "Will you be okay?" He hoped Ulmo wouldn't punish Thranduil somehow for his role in this. The thought of Legolas' beautiful, strong, noble father stripped of his brilliance, his strength and life, was appalling. But Thranduil laughed, though his laughter was tinged with regret.

            "No, dear Michael, I am protected by Námo, and my lord and lady," he assured him, squeezing his arm comfortingly. "Great contention has there been in Valinor on your account, Little One! Never has one lone Edan set brother against brother in such a fashion, and I am sure, even should we succeed, there will be strife between them for many ages."

            Michael stared at him, aghast. All this fuss and upheaval on account of HIM? Why on EARTH was he so important, anyway? What was the fuss over whether he died or not? Why would these Aliens, and the angelic beings who guided them, care one way or another? What about him could possibly inspire such controversy? But before he could voice these thoughts, Thranduil turned ahead and said with satisfaction, "Ah. Here we are." He looked at Michael and smiled. "Halfway there."

            Halfway there – they had been halfway to England when Michael had been Taken. He had accepted his fate at the hands of Ossë and Ulmo, and it seemed almost insulting to those Valar that he would be going against their wishes and trying to join the living again. He looked forward. There was another gate, but light, made of twining bars of what appeared to be gold, and only latched and not locked. It was heavily decorated with scrollwork and piercing, and glittered in the shadows. Behind it, Michael saw that it was light.

            Suddenly the darkness seemed very heavy, and he longed to leave it behind, to go to that light. He could also hear faint music – "The Song of the Ainur," Legolas had called it, and he knew he was near Oiolossë again. His heart leaped. That beautiful place! It needed no sun. The brightness was everywhere. The air had been clean and pure and the grass thick and green. He wanted very badly to see it again, even to see Manwë and Varda, to kneel at their feet and stare at the carven legs of their thrones and hear them speak to him.

            There was a woman standing behind the gate, looking through the bars at them. She was beautiful, even lovelier than Éowyn and Arwen, and Michael wondered briefly if she were one of the handmaidens of Varda, like the other one – what had been her name, the one who had spoken to them on the steps of Oiolossë. Ilmarë? But there was something familiar about her too – that sheet of white-gold hair, the ivory pallor of the flawless skin, the narrow throat and long slim hands. She stood, regarding them both calmly. In her brilliant blue eyes was a look curiously mingled, of yearning and affection.

            "You made it," she said. Her voice was warm and throaty, and joltingly familiar. Now Michael was fairly sure he knew who she was. And when Thranduil approached the gate and she opened it to them, smiling up at the Alien with an expression of tender fondness, he was certain. Now he knew whence Legolas had acquired that luminosity, that gleaming marble-whiteness. Not from his golden-haired father, but from this woman, a beam of moonlight flickering upon a slim column.

            "Yes, heart's lady," said Thranduil. He brought one of her white hands to his lips and brushed his lips across the pale skin. "I have brought the Dreamer with me."

            "Good." She turned to him. The neon-blue eyes glittered a little. It was Unnerving to see anyone but Legolas with eyes like that – his, Michael had almost gotten used to, but that was mostly because he'd gotten used to Legolas. There was an eerie potency behind this woman's gaze that made Michael very nervous. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering when he'd managed to stand on solid ground again. He hadn't even noticed, he'd been so wrapped up trying to figure out who the woman was. She watched him intensely for a few moments, and Michael could almost feel her gaze on him, piercing him, pulling out his thoughts and hopes and desires and examining them. Then she spoke:

            "Is he happy?"

            Michael blinked. What did she mean? Was she talking to him, or about him? She smiled and said, "My son. Legolas. Is he happy, with his golden Edan?"

            That made sense, thought Michael. Every mother wanted to see her son happily married. He didn't even have to consider his answer. It blurted out of him, evidence of the confidence he placed in his perception: "Oh, yes, very! He and Éowyn are just PERFECT for each other." Remembering that, to the Noldor mind, the Edain were somewhat inferior, and then recalling Gil-Galad's response to Oropher – "Your daughter-in-law's a Noldo" – he added earnestly, "She's beautiful and strong and smart and affectionate and she loves Legolas very, very much – she'd do ANYTHING for him."

            Her pale mouth twisted into an amused smile, and the cerulean eyes softened. "Ah," she said, her face gentle. "Then come to me, O Dreamer, and I shall lay my blessing upon you."

            Thranduil guided Michael up close to his wife. She, too, felt hot to the touch. The life that coursed through them almost burned him. But he submitted when he felt her hand on the crown of his head, felt the heat sear the skin. "The strength and grace of the Eldar be with you," she said, her voice sounding very sad. "May you live in peace and happiness the rest of your days, and die in honor, surrounded by love."

            There was a cracking sound, like the tearing of lightning through the fabric of the air. Thranduil and his wife raised their eyes and backed away from Michael. "It is time," said Thranduil. His voice was tight and anxious.

            Michael looked up – a great split had torn through the heavens, and someone was rocketing down to them – someone brilliantly white, long pale hair streaming behind him – he swooped down, arms outstretched, eyes aflame. "Legolas!" exclaimed Michael, then his breath was knocked out of him, and he was airborne.

            At that point, things seemed to blur before his eyes. Instead of seeing Legolas, white-clad, cascading hair spinning about their heads, he saw a knight in bright armor, charging beside him. His lance was tipped with gold, and the flash of light on the gleaming coronel burned his eyes. Then the lance turned, pointed skyward. It was not a lance after all, but a tower, hung with iron-clad balconies and crowned with a brilliant dome that pierced the canopy of trees about it. Flowering vines broke like green waves upon its foundations, and from every canopied window were folk watching, crying aloud to them, cheering them on.

            Michael looked up. The crack in the sky was there still, from where Legolas had plunged down to him – there was darkness behind it, but Michael was certain the only way back to Francis was through that hole.

            The air bludgeoned them, tearing at their hair and clothes and skin. Legolas' piney hair whipped Michael's face, stinging him. The long strong arms were wrapped around Michael's torso, cradling the smaller man against his chest as they sped upward towards the crack in the sky. They had left the shining tower and its enthusiastic citizens far behind, and the ground seemed very far away.

            Michael grabbed hold of Legolas' body as tight as he could. He could feel his weight returning to him, could feel the flutter of a heartbeat shivering in his chest. The fissure was growing closer. They were knocked about by a gust of wind coming from it, pushing them back, but still Legolas pressed forward.

            "Hang on," he shouted to Michael, and Michael could feel the muscles of Legolas' arms tense and tighten. He braced himself, and watched as they approached the fissure. Something – it might have been the wind – was struggling against them. It was as though someone was trying to close the gap, and push them away from it, all at once, but Legolas had strength, power, anger, momentum on his side. He gave a great twist, and they were through it.

            The cold heavy darkness swallowed Michael. Everything around him was icy, crushing, cutting and hitting them. The only warmth Michael could feel was the body pressed up against his own, protective, the arms wound about his back, his face against Legolas' chest. He could feel the Alien's heartbeat hammering away, could even see it fluttering against his collarbone. Legolas was straining against the heaviness, struggling through it, pushing upward, but Michael was too heavy – he was dragging Legolas backward. Michael looked down through his feet, then wished he hadn't. He recognized that face down there.

            Ossë.

            The great clawed hands reached up, grasping Michael by the ankle. Then water rushed into his nose, mouth, eyes. His lungs were compressed, squeezed. He felt rather than heard Legolas curse as they were being pulled down together. He wanted Legolas to let go, wanted Legolas to give up and go back to his beloved Éowyn, it was too much, they were both going to die –

            They were sliding, slipping backwards into the crushing icy dark.

            Legolas locked his hands at the small of Michael's back and gave a tremendous heave. Michael could see the tendons in his throat, stretched and bulging from his effort, could feel the lean sinewy muscles straining and bunching against him. But it was no good – Legolas couldn't do it. He simply couldn't contend with Ossë.

            Michael felt the pulling again, and they slipped further back. Legolas kicked and cursed and writhed, trying to pull Michael free. But it was getting darker, colder, heavier. Michael's lungs could not stay closed so long. The rushing, roaring sound was back, and it beat at his ears, his eyes. The chill was seeping into his bones, making him numb. It was too late – they couldn't do it.

            The sudden glare of light struck them like a blow, so painfully brilliant Michael could feel his pupils constrict. It hurt, it flayed him open. Everything around them went from dark gray-green to searing white, every pore, every strand of hair, every fiber of cloth illuminated. Legolas' face shadowed it somewhat. Michael could see him, looking up past Michael's head, eyes huge and staring, mouth open. He looked stunned – horror-struck – terrified. That in turn frightened Michael. What could possibly scare Legolas so much that he froze like that, staring with wordless terror, limbs turned to water, trembling uncontrollably?

            With mute horror Michael watched the look in Legolas' eyes – the realization dawning, the panic, then behind those sky-blue eyes a fracturing, a wounding, a tearing away of part of that immortal soul. Then he, too, felt it – he had thought Manwë's regard, and even the mass of the ocean upon him, to be a weight, but this pressing heaviness eclipsed both – it was a burden he couldn't bear. It would crush him, grind him to dust, squash his insignificant little self into nothingness. He moved his head, trying to get away, but then he heard Legolas' voice, very small and desperately scared:

_don't look_

            The weight moved over them, moved past them. There was no pulling now. Only that crushing regard, the Presence that threatened to eliminate them both out of its sheer existence, a manifestation of power so transcendent Michael knew he was nothing, a speck of dust, less than nothing. Everything within him withered and twisted, like green flax in hot flame.

            Ossë turned, eyes lowered. On his face was an expression of deep regret. I _am so sorry, Beloved Dreamer_ , he said, and disappeared.

            The light intensified, and Michael squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt too much to look, and anyway, he knew that if he DID look, like Legolas looked, every corner of his brain would be burned away by that light.

            Something huge touched him then, pressed him up to Legolas, and they were lifted. Michael sobbed against Legolas' chest. He could feel the strong heart there, hammering desperately, could feel the Alien's terror and dismay, clinging to his skin like some horrible wet cloak. They were rushing. They were screaming. The hot terrible cocoon in which they were encompassed shook them once, then with a horrible stomach-churning jolt they were dropped, wet, cold, limp upon a hard surface, their feet somehow beneath them.

            The light was gone. The watery sunshine and the pale gray sky seemed very dim by comparison. The floor rocked beneath Michael's feet, and he smelled fish. Standing around them, staring in amazement, were Francis, Gimli, and Aragorn. Beyond the railing of the boat Michael saw docks, buildings, the masts of other ships, crates and trucks and people. He heard seagulls, the clang and ring of the sheets, a surprised cry from Gimli. Legolas collapsed beside him into a ball, his hands over his head, and Gimli ran to him.

Michael turned to Francis, who stood looking like a man waking from a terrible nightmare. He deserved some explanation, Michael thought. So he stammered, "B – buh – big vuh –Vala," before the deck rushed up to his head and everything went dark.

 


	35. Out of the Light

  1. **Out of the Light**



 

 

            Michael awoke to a splitting headache, accompanied – and exacerbated – by a lot of extremely Rude and Inconsiderate people speaking far too loudly. He figured any eyelid-movement would only introduce a lot of rather painful light, which would in turn only make the headache worse, so it seemed prudent to lie still with his eyes closed, and hope the people would just shut up and let him suffer in peace.

            Something very cold rested on the coagulation of his headache – it felt like a lump over his eyebrow – and a droplet of water trickled down his temple into his ear, tickling him. Whoever was holding the hard cold wet thing was doing a fairly poor job of it. The cold pack was shaking, and Michael could hear a sniffling, half-sobbing sound coming from above him. That was rather confusing. Why would someone hold an ice pack on his head, and cry at the same time?

            One of the voices, beautiful like bells, but high and excited and brittle, congealed into a sentence: "B – b - bugger that! N – n – not g – g – g – going to, won't d – d – do it – " There was a crash, and a man's voice, loud and authoritative: "All right, Legolas, that's enough of that. If you can't calm down I'm – "

            "You'll what?" A woman's voice, hard, concise, angry. "Give him a sedative? Hell, Aragorn, you know that shit won't work on him. If you really wanted to help you'd fucking FIND Gandalf already!"

            "Arwen's looking – "

            "Oh shit, oh fuck, come on, you stupid bastard." There, he knew THAT voice; that was Grim – half-sobbing, half yelling. "Come on, don't do this, don't do this to me." A horrible noise, like a hysterical laugh interrupted by a tearing sob. Then the beautiful voice again, broken, grinding in the throat like a faulty engine, hiccupping and stammering and wobbling.

            "N – nuh – not going to – oh Manwë, oh my lord, his face, oh fuck I saw his face, his face his face his f – f – face – "

            "Legolas – " That was Éowyn, anxious, placating.

            But it was no use. The chiming brassy voice droned on, soaked in horror and self-loathing: "C – can't get it out – it's before me, oh fuck make it go away, it b – burned me oh my lord, tua amin, amin hiraetha, uuma merna ta uuma merna ta, heruamin tua amin mankoi, mankoi lle uma tanya – "

            "Holy shit." Doris' voice, a horrified whisper dropping like a stone into still water. "Look at his face."

            "I see it." Éowyn's voice was clipped, tight and short. Michael could almost hear her grinding her teeth. "I'm sure it's nothing. It'll go away."

            "But it's so, so bright – "

            A ripping noise, then a crash, and shouting. "Shit!" shouted Aragorn. "Hold him down, Gimli. Doris! Go topside and get Éomer – "

            All right. This sounded like a Crisis of Magnificent Proportions. Michael supposed he could shunt his headache aside and deal with it, at least for now. He'd work on the headache later. A couple of aspirin, perhaps – or maybe a beer – yes, a beer would be nice. A good beer, at least. Harp, or even a bottle of Bass.

            He tried to open his eyes, found them recalcitrant, and thrashed around a little, trying to locate a level of consciousness that would allow him to join his friends. It was very odd. He appeared to be lying on a floor. He could feel the cool wood boards beneath his head. What was he doing, lying on a floor? Then he felt hands on him, strong familiar hands, and the ice pack slid away. He was pulled into a rough embrace, and pressed up against a deliciously recognizable torso. He smelled dirty plastic, and wet hair, and salt water, and under it all the scent of cool stone and earth. Faramir.

            "Michael." The voice whispering in his ear was trembling and tight. "Michael, Michael."

            Then it came back – Ossë, Mandos, Thranduil –

            -- the Light --

            Michael sat bolt upright, his head spinning. The sudden shock of pain that shot through his left eye almost convinced him to lie back down again immediately, but instead he opened his eyes, squinting at the bright unwelcome light, and discovered he was face to face with his lover. Oh, those beloved features! The aquiline nose, dark tousled hair, pale tear-glassed eyes! With a happy squeak, Michael threw himself into Faramir's arms, trying to hug him, but his limbs were still shaky and weak. Faramir held him, his face pressed into Michael's neck. His lips were moving against the skin of Michael's throat, but with all the commotion in the other corner of the room, Michael at first couldn't hear what he was saying. But after Faramir had said it about a dozen times it sank in, and then Michael's head reeled AGAIN, but this time for entirely different reasons.

            "I love you – I love you – I love you – oh, Michael – "

            His heart – it was beating, it was beating! It filled his torso with warmth – it overflowed, swelled, bubbled up. Even if Manwë had just sent him back to hear THAT it was worth it – oh, was it worth it. But his euphoric pink haze spun away like a top at the next horrendous CRASH, and Éowyn's and Aragorn's angry voices. Over all, like some high-pitched background music, was Legolas' voice – erratic, fractured, frenetic.

            "He was there, he was there, I saw him, saw his face, saw his eyes, it's all, it's all I can see, ai tua amin tua amin tua amin – "

            "Hold him down," said Aragorn, and Michael turned his head against Faramir's shoulder to see what was going on.

            They were in Legolas and Éowyn's stateroom aboard the _White Lady_. He recognized the green paneled walls and dark furniture, and the vibrant painting of horses that was bolted next to the mirror. Éowyn, Gimli, and Aragorn were on the bed. Éowyn and Gimli were pinning Legolas down onto the mattress, Gimli on the legs and Éowyn the arms, both looking very anxious and angry, straining against the thrashing limbs. Aragorn was hastily preparing a hypodermic syringe, his face flushed, his hands shaking.

            Éowyn said breathlessly, "It won't work." She was having a hard time holding her husband down. Though she was certainly very strong, Legolas' panic was giving him the advantage, and she was bouncing about quite a bit.

            "It will if I give him enough," said Aragorn grimly. The white-clad body on the bed surged and writhed, and Legolas' voice rose in a plaintive wail:

            "Ta naa Eru! Kela, nurta! Amin hiraetha, Eru amin – "

            "Fuck," muttered Aragorn as Legolas broke free from Éowyn and Gimli. The Alien sat up, looking wildly about the room, his white-blond hair flailing around his face. He was wearing a jeweled robe, torn down the front. Michael recognized it as the robe he had worn in Oiolossë. Legolas looked terrified, hysterical. His eyes stared unseeing, and the light had gone out of them. The brilliant blue was dimmed. But perhaps that was because they were overshadowed by the skin on his face – glowing white-hot, illuminating the entire cabin.

            Michael started back, aghast. Was that the light Legolas had seen? Had it blinded him? Had it seared itself into his very skin? He was thrashing around with his arms, twisting his torso as though he were trying to get away from something. Éowyn ducked, but Gimli got a blow to his face, which made him grunt and grope for Legolas' hands.

            "Gimli, Gimli! _Aiutarme_!" Legolas sobbed, twisting away. " _Non posso vedere_!"

            " _So, la fermata me colpendo_ ," growled Gimli, rubbing his jaw and grasping at Legolas' arm, holding it still. " _Si sta male tua moglie. Fermata!_ "

            "Stop, stop, Beloved," Éowyn groaned, wrapping her arms around Legolas' torso and trying to hold him still. "Legolas, if you love me, stop!"

            Her plea was enough to still him, so that Aragorn could pinch up some of the skin on Legolas' forearm and slide the needle in. Legolas gave a convulsive shudder, arching back against his wife's kneeling form. His radiant face turned and lifted, shining its awful light on the ceiling. Dark shadows wheeled and whirled crazily on the walls, on the bed, on the figures on the bed.

            "Stop," Éowyn said again, her face half-buried in his silky hair. Michael watched, aghast, as the slim strong body shuddered, lurching forward out of Éowyn's arms and into Gimli's waiting ones. The big, hairy man held Legolas' quivering body tightly, patting the back with perhaps more force than tenderness, but Michael saw that Gimli's face was wet with tears.    
            "You stupid bastard," said Gimli, his voice trembling. "You stubborn stupid idiot. Why the hell did you have to go and get nuts on us?"

            "Nuh – not nuts – buh – but f – fuh- fucking scared – " Legolas' voice quieted, then he slumped into Gimli's embrace and started to sob, huge racking sobs that convulsed his entire body, tearing their way out his lungs with hoarse convulsive cries.

            Michael looked at Éowyn. She was kneeling behind her husband, her face stricken and pale, watching him writhe weakly in his best friend's arms. Her own hands, empty and bereft of his embrace, lay limply on her lap.

            Aragorn leaned around her and checked Legolas' pulse. He looked a tad disheveled, but now that the immediate crisis appeared to be over he seemed very calm.

            "That seems to have done it," he said, his voice crisp and professional. "There, old friend, doesn't that feel better?" He laid a competent hand on Legolas' flossy head, ruffling the silky hair. Only the slightest twitching in one of his eyelids betrayed his concern.

            " _Non posso vedere_ ," whispered Legolas, his voice hoarse and muffled in Gimli's armpit. Gimli looked up at Aragorn, his brown eyes wide and scared.

            "Was it the light did this to him?" he asked, his gravelly voice trembling.

            "Maybe it's just temporary then," said Faramir. His voice sounded very close and hollow, echoing through his chest in Michael's ear. "The Valar wouldn't take his sight away. They wouldn't be that cruel to the Listener."

            "A Listener only needs ears," said Éowyn tiredly, running her long fingers through her tumbled, golden curls. She too looked frightened, as though she'd never seen her husband act this way before. Perhaps she hadn't – perhaps none of them had. "There's really no good reason, from Manwë's standpoint, for Legolas to have his eyesight."

            Then Michael understood what " _non posso vedere_ " meant – the Light had blinded Legolas.

            The realization hit him with a sickening lurch, like riding a roller coaster at the midway after having eaten too many candied apples. This was a terrible thing, an awful thing. It would cripple Legolas more than taking both his feet. No sight meant no painting. No sight meant no driving a motorcycle. No sight meant no jumping out of airplanes, no rescuing people, no protecting anyone. No sight meant no sailing, or cooking, or any of those things Legolas loved to do. Oh, sure, blind people learned to do some of those things – but never alone and unsupervised. Always with someone around, someone to help when things went wrong. Poor Legolas! He was so independent, so strong and capable – to have to give up that capability, to be dependent on someone else, no matter how well-loved! To have to step aside and let others do the dirty work. To have to sit idly by while someone else did what he knew he had once been more than able to do – well, Light or no Light, Listening or no Listening, that would drive Michael mad, too.

            Michael nestled down in Faramir's ready embrace, his heart sinking. He didn't know if he could stand to watch it – watch the slow, inexorable fracturing of this strong white soul, watch the long powerful body grow limp and weak, see the light fade from those luminous eyes. And when Legolas turned in Gimli's arms, groping blindly for his wife, the Light shining off the alabaster skin made Michael squint. It was like a beacon, an echo of that horrible brilliance, a visual rebuke to the rest of them, who had dared allow Legolas to tread those forbidden waters, and bring Michael back.

            _It's my fault_ , he thought miserably, feeling his sinuses sting, and his eyes fill with tears. _If I hadn't died, Legolas wouldn't have had to get me, and he wouldn't be blind right now._

            He watched Gimli lower Legolas back into Éowyn's embrace, gentle, like a father with a newborn son. That long powerful body was limp and weak, the jaw slack, the dull eyes half-closed. The drugs were doing their work, and Legolas was fading. Éowyn gathered her husband in her long golden arms, crooning softly. Legolas didn't even seem to hear her. He had collapsed against her, spiritless, helpless, unguarded. One white-clad arm slipped bonelessly off her lap, the Light on the beadwork sending flashes and sparkles around the room, like some pathetic disco ball. The slim white hand hung limply, fingers still stained with paint, and for some reason that hurt Michael most of all – to see that hand, once so kinetic and skillful and adept, denuded of any impetus or energy. He wanted to hide his face in Faramir's shoulder and cry for hours, but that seemed so useless somehow. He wanted to DO something, like Legolas used to do things, but he didn’t know WHAT to do.

_You are his eyes, his hands_

            The voice was gentle, kind, understanding. It was the same voice that had reminded him of Éomer. _Who are you?_ he asked in his head. He didn't dare break the silence around him with such an inane question.

_Peace, beloved Dreamer. Go to him, and tell him all shall be well._

            Well, that was something he could DO, whether he believed it or not. And somehow, when this strange voice told him something, he felt rather inclined to believe him. There was a jolly quality to it, despite the desperate circumstances. An underlying joy in the journey from hardship to hardship, a sort of perpetual cosmic belly-laugh. He could believe in a voice like that. He could obey it.

            He pulled out of Faramir's embrace. When his lover protested weakly, Michael gave him a reassuring kiss, and Faramir released him. He got to his feet, bracing himself against the dresser – his head REALLY hurt, and he was a little dizzy – he waited for the spell to pass, his hand pressed against his forehead. He could feel the lump now. It was a doozie, all right. _I'll probably have ANOTHER black eye_ , he thought sourly to himself. It was really Unfair. All he really HAD was his looks. Why did he have to keep bashing himself up and giving himself bruises and black eyes? It was not very Attractive. _I'll have to be more careful in the future_ , he thought to himself, then winced when he realized how foolish that sounded – like he could be more careful, coming back from the dead. _I wonder how long I was gone?_ he thought, and rubbed his eyes.

            The room stopped spinning, so he took a few tentative steps toward the bed. Gimli was sitting on the edge, his face in his hands. He looked as though he were crying. Aragorn was sitting off to the side, repacking his first-aid kit. He gave Michael a critical look – focusing mostly on the lump, he noticed – then the gray eyes softened, and his mouth quirked into a smile. Éowyn knelt, her arms wrapped around her white-clad husband, gold wrapped around ivory. Both were very still, and Legolas' shining face illuminated the whole room.

            There were footsteps outside the stateroom. Éomer and Doris came in, all eyes. They both looked at Michael standing by the bed, and Doris gave a little sob, her fingertips pressed to her lips. Michael smiled at her – he would give her a Proper Greeting later – for right now, he had something important to do.

            He sat down in front of Éowyn and Legolas. Éowyn looked up at him, her silvery eyes bleary with tears, her full red lips curved dolorously downward. Legolas did not move, but stared with sightless eyes at the ceiling, his sweet pink lips open over strong white teeth, jaw slack, limp, but breathing fast and shallow. Michael tentatively reached forward with the fingers of one hand and placed them on Legolas' head.

            Darkness, darkness unreachable. cold silence and immeasurable loneliness. A soundless voice screaming unheard in the void: _I can't see I can't see it's all dark where's the Light_

            "You don't need the light," said Michael. His voice sounded very loud in the silence of the stateroom. "I'll be your eyes, Legolas."

            The beautiful face stirred, seeking him out. Michael squinted when that brilliant beacon was focused on him. It was Ironic, all that light, and no sight, like headlights for a car that wouldn't run.

            "Michael." Legolas' voice was slurred, unsteady. So unlike the quick bark of laughter, easy repartee, slangy turn of speech. "What do you see?"

            Michael thought for a minute. If he was to be Legolas' eyes, as the voice in his head was telling him, and be his hands as well, chances are that didn't mean he was to be Legolas' personal white cane or Braille translator. If it was important enough for the Valar to order him around, it would be for more weighty issues than, "Watch out for that curb," or, "Here, let me cut up your steak for you."

            _What am I supposed to do?_ he thought. _What DO I see?_

_Look_

            He saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged in a green field, eyes closed, face serene. His hands, clasped in his lap, were bound with shackles. Shackles also immobilized his feet. Every once in a while a bird flew down and landed on his shoulder. Legolas would open his mouth, and the bird would put something in his mouth – a petit four, a cherry, a piece of cheese. And he sat, and he waited, blind but content, because propped up against one of his knees was a cardboard sign that said, "Wait." It didn't matter that the maelstrom whirled and wheeled around him. He couldn't see the chaos that spun like a tornado around his still form. It simply didn't matter.

            "You need to wait," said Michael. He grimaced a little. That had sounded so stupid, so banal and insensitive. Legolas' eyebrows twitched, and he gave a lopsided frown.

            "What about – Ahn?" he asked blearily, and gave a horrendous yawn.

            "You don't have to worry about him anymore," said Michael. "It's not your job now."

            "Hm? Oh, good," said Legolas. His head shifted, and Éowyn caught it before it slid off her lap. The blue eyes closed, the body sank into the mattress. "I was getting – " another yawn " – bloody tired of that git."

            Michael and Éowyn watched him slip away, watched the facial muscles slacken, the head tip to one side, the breathing change – deep, slow, slightly sonorous. Even in a drug-induced stupor, Legolas was beautiful. The square forehead was clear, with its silky fall of white-blond hair poured out like molten platinum over his wife's lap. The straight nose and high cheekbones, the rosebud lips and columnar neck – even when Faramir came up behind Michael, wrapping possessive arms around his lover's waist, Michael watched Legolas, beautiful Legolas, who had been so flawless up until now – until the sight had been stricken from him, and that awful light laid upon his face.

 


	36. Darkness Thickens

  1. **Darkness Thickens**



 

 

            Faramir sat on the bench in the corner of their stateroom. He was dressed in jeans, a bulky green turtleneck sweater – SO not his color, it must have been Éomer's – and wool socks, and his dark hair was slicked back by saltwater. One strand clung to his forehead, a black curving line across the caramel skin, just begging for Michael to lean over and brush it back. But Faramir rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward a little, his face grim. His pale gray eyes were fixed on his lover.

            Michael sat on the edge of their bed and watched Faramir watch him. He felt nervous, as nervous as he'd felt the first time he'd gone into Faramir's – Francis' – apartment – when had Francis become Faramir? – he didn't know, didn't really care. He had that same tight, fluttery feeling in his stomach, the same acute awareness of Francis' proximity, the same consciousness of each breath, turn of the head, shifting of the feet. It was as though he was seeing this man for the first time – this man with whom he'd lived, slept, eaten, listened to music, hidden, run. The broad forehead, intelligent eyes that kept the soul safely secreted, aristocratic nose, full lower lip crowned by a thin bow of flesh, the hint of a cleft in the strong chin.

            Michael swallowed and looked at Faramir's hands – his strong, long-fingered, broad-palmed hands with their light dusting of black hair. The nails were broken, and he had a cut on one knuckle – so different from the perfectly manicured hands Francis Steward had sported – workman's hands, sailor's hands. Those fingers had touched him, explored him, caressed and excited him for eight months, and yet at that moment they seemed to Michael to be the hands of a stranger. It was a frightening thought, but a titillating one as well.

            Aside from that first compulsive embrace, and the following entwining of limbs after Legolas had fallen asleep, Faramir had barely touched him. They had left Éowyn and Legolas' stateroom with Doris, Gimli, Aragorn, and Éomer, and Faramir had graciously allowed Doris some Michael Time – Michael's robe was still wet from her tears – odd that he was wearing a robe, but then again, Legolas was wearing one too – and it was then Michael discovered how long, exactly, he'd been away, and where, exactly, he was. It was Unnerving.

            Three weeks. And they were in Whitehaven.

            Three weeks – to Michael it had felt like three hours. For three weeks Faramir, Doris, and everyone else had simply sailed on, after watching him get sucked under, watching Legolas dive in, to not resurface – at all. The only thing, Gimli said, that floated back up was Michael's coat. They had fished it out, dropped anchor and waited for two days, and when nothing happened, they had taken counsel with one another, and moved on. After all, the north Atlantic was a big place, and Ahn was still on the loose. And hadn't Michael accepted his fate? He'd known, as everyone else had known, that Ossë was going to drown him. The fact that Legolas refused to accept it was also acknowledged. So they'd assumed Ossë had won, and Legolas had lost. They mourned Michael, figured Legolas would return eventually, and weighed anchor.

            For three weeks, everyone believed Michael dead and gone. For three weeks, they'd sailed with heavy hearts toward Scotland, watching Faramir closely, to make sure he didn't make away with himself. For three weeks, Doris whispered, Faramir had stood at the stern, face bleak and pale, staring out at the green-black, white-capped water, waiting, seeking, searching. For three weeks he barely spoke to anyone, occasionally to Éowyn, but for the most part silent, eyes ravaged by grief. For three weeks, Michael had been gone.

            And now he was back, and Faramir was trying to deal with that.

            That was why Michael was nervous. Bad enough he'd just broken Faramir's heart by disappearing into the crushing black depths. Now, just as his lover was starting to move, breathe, find reason for getting up in the morning, back he comes. Granted, the impulsive "I love you"s were encouraging, but the look on Faramir's face – shuttered, wary, much like the Francis Steward of Not-Discussed-Land, made his heart race – and not necessarily in a good way. Not entirely in a bad way either, as they were, after all, alone in their cabin with the door locked – a Good Sign, really – but Michael desperately wished the stiff façade would crack, so Faramir could come back to him.

            He wanted to say something, to break the awkward silence. Things had been fine until the cabin door had closed – he had been speaking easily with the others, shaking Éomer's hand, hugging Lottie and Doris, enduring Gimli's and Aragorn's crushing shoulder-grips. Faramir had seemed calm, at ease, perhaps a little eager to get Michael alone, which the others had accepted at face value. But as soon as the door closed, and Michael had turned to bury himself in Faramir's embrace, his lover had walked quickly to the corner of the room, sat with abrupt violence in the chair, and with an brusque gesture motioned Michael to the bed.

            And there they had sat, not speaking, for ten minutes – ten minutes that felt like ten years to Michael. And worst of it was, the longer they sat in silence, the harder it was to break that silence – the stronger and thicker the silence became. Even trying to open his mouth to speak was unthinkable. So he sat there, watching Faramir, and Faramir sat there and watched Michael watch him.

            When it got to the point Michael was afraid to scratch an itch on his nose for fear of disrupting the heavy hush, he took mental stock of himself, and summoned what courage he possessed. This was ridiculous. Honestly. Three weeks – or hours, depending upon your perspective – without one another, and here's a nice comfy bed, and a nice locked door, and a nice tacit approval from their friends to Get It On, and what were they doing? Sitting and looking. Ridiculous. Michael wasn't sure what Faramir's problem was, but if it was Lack of Sex, simply sitting and staring wasn't going to solve any problems, and as soon as Michael got his hands into Faramir's tighty-whiteys, the sooner this snit could come to a satisfactory conclusion.

            He braced himself. Faramir would probably try to shut him down – he was so good at that – pushing Michael away, putting up that cold, stony wall between them, making Michael beg for it. It was mortifying, but Michael did it sometimes – because afterwards, when the castle walls had been breached, and Faramir made love to him, Something Wonderful happened between them, and Faramir would soften, relax, open up. It might only be temporary, but at least Michael would get the affection and attention he craved, and Faramir wouldn't be quite such a bear to live with.

            Granted, it had been quite a while since Michael had had to resort to tactics like that – months – since Legolas' precipitate entry into their apartment, oh, it felt like years ago – but Michael, good Bottom that he was, was quite adept at Aesthetically Creative Begging, and his Alpha needed to lighten up. He had just prepared himself to start to move, shifting a little on his backside which, he admitted with chagrin, was getting a little stiff and prickly from sitting still so long, when Faramir stirred, a quick twitch to one side, and his chin went up. The pale eyes studied Michael carefully.

            "Where were you?" he asked, his voice flat.

            Michael fought down the cold uprising of panic in his chest – it sounded so like his father, when Michael would come in late from the gay nightclubs – as though Dad could smell the testosterone on his skin, smell the drinks and the smoke and the heady scent of male sex. The cold glare, the disgusted shake of the head, turning away, arms folded across the chest. "Disgusting," he'd say, and Michael would stare at the floor, at the gold-patterned linoleum of the entryway, his face burning, the delightful buzz dashed to pieces. But Faramir wasn't his father, he was his lover, and after three weeks of Living Hell deserved a little consideration.

            "I was in Mandos," said Michael, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes and say, "Duh!" Where else would he have gone? Hell, perhaps. Well, maybe he'd been there after all, conversationally speaking. Three hours, three weeks, what of it? Death was death. At least Michael hadn't mourned much. Poor Faramir! Michael remembered the agony of Faramir's dream of Nienna, and his heart turned over. "I didn't know – " he began, but Faramir turned away, waving his hand dismissively.

            "I know you were in Mandos," he said, his voice a little rough. What was that; was he CRYING? SO unlike his Alpha, so unnerving. "I meant, _where_ in Mandos?"

            Michael didn't understand that in the least. Where? He didn't know where. How on earth would he know? It wasn't as though there were a mall map set up by the gate with "You are Here" blazoned on it, pointing out the fastest way to Neiman Marcus. He had been on a white shining floor, with a house and three chairs and two Highly Dysfunctional Aliens. It could've been anywhere, really – well, anywhere in the Astral Plane. Certainly not South Dakota or anything like that. Roswell, perhaps. He could see it having occurred in Roswell. But under the circumstances, it was Highly Unlikely.

            His puzzled expression must've convinced Faramir he had no idea what the question entailed, because Faramir looked away, biting his lip – Michael knew that expression. It was a combination of I'm-upset-but-I-don't-want-to-show-it and oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-he-doesn't-get-it. This annoyed Michael. HOW could he answer the question when he didn't know WHAT Faramir wanted?! Any consideration as to the possible sexual outcome of this encounter went out the window with the surge of indignation. Get laid be damned. This was obviously not about sex anyway.

            "Who were you with?" asked Faramir abruptly. There was a flash of something – shame, fear – that glimmered through the stony wall. Beneath his confusion, something clicked with Michael. Faramir knew people who had died – knew lots of them, mourned at least one in particular – the other man in the boat, Boromir. His brother. Dead, very Manly too – when exactly had Faramir Come Out? Had his brother known? Well, if Boromir had died before Faramir had divorced Éowyn, obviously not. That was it, then. Faramir was afraid of where Michael had been – who he'd been with – what he'd said. That explained it. Faramir was afraid, and his fear was making him defensive and cold.

            "I wasn't with your brother, if that's what you're asking," said Michael a little acerbically. Really, who'd died here, after all? Who'd been sucked into the inky black depths and drowned and thrown into Hell and ripped back out and dumped on an icy deck? Didn't he deserve ANY consideration? Then he saw the stricken look on Faramir's face, and his heart turned instantly to water. He'd HURT Faramir!!! When, oh when would Michael EVER learn to keep his mouth SHUT? He opened his mouth to apologize, but the expression of relief and confusion mingled on his lover's face distracted him. When had he ever seen Faramir look like that? It was so Cute, so Endearing – Michael sat forward, reaching one shaking hand out to him. Faramir could only sit, paralyzed with emotion, staring open-mouthed at him.

            "When – How – "

            Michael's pity reached a breaking point. "I saw him in a dream," he blurted. "You were mourning him; he was lying in a boat with arrows all over him. I've seen him before that even. I watched him die. Boromir, your brother."

            Faramir could only stare. "Yes," he whispered. His hands, gripping the seat of the chair, were shaking, the knuckles white. The expression on his face, the look in his eyes, was wounded, battered, crushed. What on earth had his family DONE to him? Had it been Even Worse than how Michael's father had reacted? That Faramir had loved his brother was a Given – had Boromir loved his brother back? Ah, that was the difficulty – to desire fraternal love and acceptance at any cost, to fear that disapproval, the grimace of disgust.

            "I was with Gil-Galad and Oropher," said Michael. His words tumbled out, cracking the silence, breaking the wall. "They knew I was gay and they didn't care. They _didn't care_ , Faramir. It didn't matter there, in Mandos, whether you were gay or straight. Oropher and Gil-Galad didn't care at all. And Boromir wouldn't have cared, either. I KNOW he wouldn't. It was different there, Faramir. People didn't care about things like that. Boromir would have been happy; he would have wanted you to be happy, too."

            Faramir's Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down and he was blinking rapidly. Michael could see the muscles in his jaw, clenching and unclenching. He was fighting it, fighting the crumbling of Jericho's walls, but it was no use – Michael's voice was the trumpet, the walls were falling, there was no stopping him.

            "He – " Faramir's voice cracked. The gray eyes were occluded with a film of tears. "He – would have wanted me – to uphold the honor of the family."

            Such an empty phrase. It made Michael want to bite someone, to hit whoever had bound Faramir's soul in so stiff a corset. You couldn't breathe that way. You couldn't laugh.

            "You have," said Michael earnestly. He found the hand then, wrenched it off the edge of the bench it was gripping. The strong calloused fingers grabbed hold of his own small white hand, held it firm. "You're smart, you're successful, you're brave, you're doing the right thing. What could he complain about?"

            "I love you," said Faramir. It wasn't a declaration of devotion. It was a confession made to a priest, an excuse for his self-loathing. "I love you and I can't help it. I can't help myself." The pale eyes overflowed. The face softened, crumpled, mouth pulled awry. A sob escaped Faramir's chest, a hiccup, a fracture. "I love you and I shouldn't. But I can't stop, I can't, even though Boromir – "

            "Oh, to hell with Boromir," exclaimed Michael, suddenly impatient. Faramir closed his eyes and lowered his head, still crying. Michael was holding his one hand in both of his own, rubbing it inconsequentially. "He's in Mandos, with the rest of the Edain I bet, complaining about how good the Eldar have it because they're all overcrowded and the Eldar have all the space they want. Let him bitch all he wants, darling – " Faramir opened his eyes. The tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his fingers were twitching convulsively. Michael was angry, but filled with pity and understanding all at once. He knew exactly what Faramir was thinking, and knew he shouldn't feel that way. "Boromir can't get between us, and frankly I don't think he would anyway." He gave a grin, lopsided, and squeezed Faramir's hand. "He'd be too impressed with how well you sail and program computers and kill people, and then I'd redecorate his dining room and everything would be fine."

            The laugh came out more as an exploding snort, but it was sufficient. Faramir covered his eyes with his free hand and chuckled weakly through his tears, while Michael desperately rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the other hand. After a minute it occurred to him he was rubbing the Wrong Appendage entirely, and wondered if, now the Silence had been broken, a little subtle Celebration might be in order. Coming Out in the Afterlife was no joke, after all. But wasn't there something – something – he'd forgotten to do? He leafed through the incidents of what he saw as the past few hours. Let's see, coming back from the dead, Thranduil, Mandos, sinking and drowning –

            Ah, yes.

            "And by the way," said Michael, his courage girded up round his waist like a wrestler's belt. "What I was walking across the deck to tell you, when I was so rudely interrupted by the Valar, was that I love you."

            The hand in front of Faramir's eyes moved. When Michael saw the expression on his lover's face his heart turned to butter in the sunshine. Broken, hopeful, filled with a tentative joy, bracing itself for disappointment but praying to everything sacred that happiness was, despite past failures, forthcoming. Michael could see the progression of thought behind those pale, intelligent eyes – the settling of ideas and preconceived notions, the shift of perspective and sudden appreciation.

            To Michael's surprise, Faramir rose quickly and smoothly to his feet, still keeping hold of Michael's hand with one of his own, but reaching down to his lover, circling Michael's shoulders, bending down, bringing their faces together. Michael could hear their breathing, heavy and hoarse and a little uneven. He could see the tear-tracts on Faramir's face, the slight reddening of the eyes, could feel the sudden gust of hot breath on his chin, the heat of another body's proximity. Then the mattress creaked and shifted. Faramir had put one knee down on it, right between Michael's legs. Everything in him leaped and his heart started to frantically pound.

            Faramir's face grew closer. Michael could see his lips parted, his eyes half-closed, the head tipped to one side – there was no question now. He was Committed – Michael closed his eyes and felt the hungry lips devour his own, felt the knee between his legs press forward, the arm round his shoulders tighten. A high-pitched buzz started up somewhere behind his eyes and he welcomed it. Three hours, three weeks, what did it matter? He was pushed back, sinking into the mattress. There was the crunching sound of the box spring adjusting to their weight, the rustle of fabric against fabric, a hot tongue requesting permission to enter, a hand trailing down the inside of his arm to his chest. He let out a pent-up breath of gratification, so loud it almost drowned out the last thing Faramir would say for several hours.

            "Mine."


	37. Missing Mithrandir

  1. **Missing Mithrandir**



 

 

            "All right," said Éomer. "Now what?"

            He gazed around at them expectantly, his blue eyes hopeful and a little vapid. He looked from Aragorn, frowning and glaring at Legolas, to Arwen, frustrated and glaring at the table, to Éowyn, cold and defensive and glaring at them both, to Gimli, resigned and sad, to Faramir, casually cleaning under his nails with an orange stick.

            They were sitting at the long deal table in the sitting room of the hotel, and had been arguing for well over an hour about their next move. So far it didn't seem like they were making much progress. Michael shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. It was a tad more difficult to sit nowadays. Faramir's libido had arisen with a vengeance, and it was the rare hour that passed without some overt expression of ardor.

            He stole a stealthy glance at Legolas. The lovely creature sat at the table with them, flawless face serene, sightless eyes fixed upon some random spot on the ceiling. The Light emanating from his skin had faded, but that had not brought back the luminous brilliance of his eyes. They were a pale blue, unfocused, rimmed with thick dark lashes and lacking none of the effervescent beauty of his race, but blind, dim, unknowing. The columbine lips were stilled, settled in their rosebud form, silent. The quick kinetic hands rested quietly on his lap. But still the long shimmering hair shifted around his shoulders, throwing back the lamplight, gleaming like molten gold, drawing Michael's eyes like the teasing, shifting images on a television screen.

            "Sweetie," said Lottie impatiently, "you can't expect everyone to have made up their minds in the last five MINUTES. I mean, REALLY." She flipped her hair back, tipping her chair. Her pink sequined top glittered. "It's not as though Mithrandir's called or anything. We're in the same place we were this morning."

            That was true enough, thought Michael while Éomer and Lottie argued. A lovely hotel. Beautiful rooms. The plumbing was a little – archaic – how Faramir had laughed, watching him cast around helplessly for the method to flush the toilet! How could he have known it was a CHAIN? – they each had their own suite, WITH bathroom and toilet, the concierge had been quick to point out – Michael had not realized that having one's own toilet was a sort of cachet in Europe. And the view from his and Faramir's rooms was spectacular – Piccadilly Circus, with the Mercury lifting his little faggoty foot behind him. No wonder it was called "going Greek."

            A flicker of memory assailed him – Faramir and him in the big claw-footed enamel bath tub, the complimentary bottle of lavender-scented bath oil put to good use – was it his imagination, or could he still catch a whiff of _eau de lavande_ about his person? He smothered a sly smile and shot a glance at Faramir.

            His lover sat beside him, leaning his long slim black-clad form in his chair, legs outstretched, taking unusual care of his fingernails. He seemed to feel Michael's gaze on him, because he glanced over, met Michael's eyes, and the supple mouth curved up in a tantalizing smile, one gray eye winking. Michael's heart lurched in his chest, and he could feel his face grow hot, but Faramir had looked away as though nothing had happened, picking at his nails again with the long thin stick.

            "What it comes down to is this," said Aragorn, his normally impassive voice angry. "Legs can't see anything, and Manwë's not talking to him, so that way of finding things out is useless now."

            Éowyn turned to him, frowning a little, but Aragorn ignored her and plunged on. Michael was rather impressed. HE wouldn't have wanted to test Éowyn's temper like that.

            "Arwen and I can't find Gandalf – he's gone, who knows where, so we can't rely on him, either."

            Gimli fetched another sigh then, and Doris grabbed his hand, her brown eyes sympathetic and worried. Michael didn't blame her. He was worried, too. No sign of Ahn or his operatives. No word from the Valar. No sign of Gandalf. They were floundering, reaching out in the dark. Anything could be happening. Ahn could be anywhere, doing anything by now, and they wouldn't know.

            "There's no movement online, no cell or emails or IMs or any other kind of communication. Right?" Aragorn turned to Gimli and Faramir, his grey eyes demanding. Gimli only shook his head, but Faramir looked up and said languidly:

            "Where would you have us look? He's certainly not going to use his regular venues – he knows he's being followed. We've searched everywhere we can safely think of. Do you want to risk giving away our position?"

            "At this point," said Éomer heavily, "I don't see we have much of a choice. We have to do SOMETHING."

            Again all eyes turned to Legolas, expecting him to speak, to order them around, to tell them what to do. But he simply sat there, aloof, inscrutable, lovely. Aragorn made an impatient noise.

            "It's bad enough your Inner Eye's stopped up," he said acidly to Legolas. "Why do you just fucking sit there, like a statue? Can't you _say_ something?"

            Legolas tipped his face over towards Aragorn, opening his sweet pink lips to speak, but Michael, filled with indignation, burst out: "What do you mean? What do you WANT him to say? If he can't see he can't see, and if Manwë's not talking he's not talking and what I say is, YOU weren't there and YOU didn't see the Light, the – the – " He stammered to a halt, not sure how to describe it. Legolas broke in impassively, dropping the first word he'd spoken in hours like a heavy stone into still water:

            "Eru."

            "Yes, Him, whoever He is. You didn't see Him and I didn't see Him and quite frankly I'm glad I didn't see Him – "

            Faramir touched Michael's arm in warning, but Michael jerked away angrily. "It was bad enough being TOUCHED by Him and LIFTED by Him and even NOTICED by Him. And Faramir, DON'T try to shut me up because you DON'T know what it was that blinded him and we DON'T know why Manwë's not talking but if he's NOT then it has NOTHING to do with Legolas or any fault of his and EVERYTHING to do with me and with my coming back from Mandos so DON'T – " He shook a threatening finger at Aragorn, who looked nonplussed at Michael's outburst – and well he might. This was Quite New for him – "BLAME LEGOLAS FOR THIS."

            He shook the finger again, hoping he looked Menacing, or at the very least Authoritative, but uncomfortably certain he more resembled a miffed white rabbit. He tried to glare around the table. It wasn't a very good Glare, as he had no real experience with Glaring, but at least it was a Relatively Convincing Glare, and if Doris bit her lip in secret amusement, Michael was certainly not going to begrudge her the joke. Heaven knew they could use a laugh at this point.

            Éomer, however, seemed to remember something, which made his normally foolish face take on a canny, speculative look. "Hey," he said slowly, lowering his thick eyebrows at Michael. "You're the Dreamer. Right? The Valar tell you stuff in your Dreams, right? Stuff that's supposed to happen in the future? So what have your Dreams told you? Anything about what we’re supposed to do next?"

            "No," snapped Michael, offended. "My Dreams haven't told me ANYTHING useful. It's just dreams, you know – plain, ordinary dreams, like trying to pack a suitcase and not being able to find my Tommy Bahama polo shirts, or needing to catch a bus and forgetting the schedule."

            "Helpless dreams," said Legolas vaguely, groping in his pocket for a sweet. Michael nodded, even though Legolas couldn't see him.

            "Yes," he said eagerly. "Helpless, like I need to do something and I can't. I HATE those kinds of dreams. I used to have them in college – like I was going to take a final, and didn't know where the class was or what book I was supposed to have studied."

            Éomer frowned at the table. Lottie looked expectantly at Michael, as though she was anticipating another Grand Idea on the scale of what he'd pulled out of his hat at Silver Bush, but Michael was not forthcoming – he didn't HAVE any Grand Ideas, and really, why should any of them expect him to? It's not as though he were a Strategist or Warrior or anything. He was an Interior Decorator, and just the Dreamer – with pretty useless dreams indeed.

            "Éowyn," said Aragorn. "What about Yavanna? Hasn't she spoken to you?"

            "No," said Éowyn shortly. "And no, I can't command her to speak to me. She's a fucking Vala, Aragorn. What the hell do you want me to do, throw my weight around?" She shook her head disgustedly.

            Michael understood. Aragorn couldn't know, couldn’t know what the Valar were like – couldn't know the sheer weight of personality they possessed.

            "She'd crush me," she said, her voice hollow, her silver eyes fixed on the table. "She loves me, but she'd crush me. They're like that, the Valar. You can't tell them what to do." She glanced at her husband, who was rummaging around helplessly in a cellophane bag, hunting for a candy. With an impatient grunt she snatched the bag from him and pried a recalcitrant caramel from one twisted corner. "Here," she said shortly, unwrapping it and putting it in his palm.

            "Responsibility dreams," said Legolas.

            Éowyn blinked. "What?"

            Legolas put the caramel in his mouth. "You know. You have responsibility for something but you can't fulfill your obligation. Guilt. Responsibility."

            "We know, old friend," said Gimli kindly. "We've all had dreams like that. Why, I used to dream that I was – "

            "No," interrupted Legolas thoughtfully. "Michael's the Dreamer. If he's having a responsibility dream, it bloody well means something. We fucking need to pay attention to it." Everyone went silent, watching him chew, his blind eyes fixed sightlessly on the far wall. "This caramel is stale," he said.

            "Fuck the caramel," said Aragorn angrily. "You mean, Michael's got something for us, but we don't know what it is?"

            "No," said Legolas. He worked the half-masticated caramel out of his mouth and stuck it gracelessly to the surface of the table, wiping his fingers on his jeans. "I mean, Michael's the Dreamer, and whatever Vala's got him is still speaking to him, even though my theater's empty." He tapped his forehead then with a wry smile, then turned to face Michael, though his eyes stared sightlessly past Faramir instead. "Who's talking to you, mate? Do you know?"

            "No," said Michael, mystified. "Only that he sort of sounds like Éomer." Éomer made a strangled noise then, like a little aborted yelp, probably because Lottie had just given him a hard, definitive pinch. "And he likes me. Like your father liked me, Legolas."

            "Ah." Legolas smiled. "Yeah, Dad's a right softie, inn't he? Bloody good bloke, though I do say so myself." He seemed to cast around then, turning his head back and forth. "You know, mates, I'm awfully peckish. Is it time for tea yet?"

            "No," said Aragorn shortly, and Lottie bit her lip to hide a smile.

            "So what you're saying," said Faramir slowly, sliding one long-fingered hand onto Michael's thigh, "is that Michael is still Dreaming True, but we're not reading the riddle?"

            "Mm," said Legolas, frowning a little. "Well, no. A Vala that sounds like Éomer … " He shook his head, his pale hair floating over his shoulders. "Sure it was Éomer, mate? Not Gimli? Aulë I could suss out, but Éomer – "

            "No, he didn't sound the least bit like Gimli," protested Michael resentfully. "If he'd SOUNDED like Gimli, I would have SAID he sounded like Gimli."

            "You're quite right, mate. Beg pardon," said Legolas politely. "Well, I'm buggered if I know. If he sounds like Éomer, he won't be giving us fucking riddles, me pets. Probably just preparing Michael for something he has to do."

            "But what?" asked Aragorn edgily.

            "How the fuck should I know?" asked Legolas with casual impudence, leaning back in his chair. "What the fuck do I look like, a fuckin' oracle or summat?" Aragorn started to protest, but Legolas interrupted irritably, "Oh, bloody hell, Longshanks, shut yer gob. Haven't got all the bloody answers, do I? Fifteen fucking thousand fucking years I've been tellin' you, 'Go here,' or 'Do this,' and you've done fuckin' nothing but give me the argy-bargy 'bout my ordering your bloody white arse around. Made it too easy for you, I have. Do you good to get yer hands dirty for once. If you wanted to help me out, you'd get me a bleedin' chocolate. Fuckin' A, the bloody King of Gondor for you, lookit that." Legolas shook his head in mock disgust, and Éowyn gave a snort of laughter. Aragorn looked deeply affronted, and a little foolish.

            "Well," he said sullenly, "if you can't be any more helpful than that – "

            "Put a sock in it. He's done enough," said Gimli crossly. "Good grief, he brought Michael back from the dead. What the hell else do you want out of him? Let him enjoy his little Valar-induced vacation. Aulë knows he deserves it."

            "You sure it's a vacation and not a punishment?" asked Arwen abruptly, fixing Legolas with a sympathetic eye. Legolas lifted one languid shoulder.

            "So what if it is, ducks?" he said. "Blind and deaf, still Manwë's servant. Can't do a fucking thing about it." He sighed. "Can we have a curry tonight? Blimey, I'm hungry."

            "We had curry last night," said Aragorn shortly. "Look, this is getting us nowhere. Michael's dreams are telling us jack shit, and all Legolas wants to do is insult me. I'm finished." He got up from the table, scraping his chair back.

            "Well, what about Chinese? Can we have Chinese?"

            "No!"

            "Pub food, then? I've got a yen for a Guinness."

            "Are we through here?" asked Faramir dryly, glancing over at Éowyn, who was regarding her husband with a look of exasperated affection.

            "So it would appear," she said with a grimace, running her long fingers through her golden hair. "We can either sit here for another hour chewing old shoes, or we can try to find Ahn. I vote you and Grim up your efforts."

            "Well, if you insist," said Faramir with a smile, glancing over at Gimli, whose face wore a look of deep apprehension. "What the hell? Maybe we can be like the beaters in India, chasing out the tigers and getting bitten for our trouble."

            "Speak for yourself," grunted Gimli, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet, extending one meaty hand to help Doris up. "You beat, I'll stand there with the elephant gun."

            "Fair enough."

            "What about steak? There's a decent steak restaurant in Soho. And if we end up with Mad Cow, we can sue their bollocks off."

            "Shove it, would you, Legs?"

            Michael got up and turned to find Éomer standing behind him, his pale eyes anxious. "Look," he said. "If you dream anything – anything at all – then you need to tell us, all right? We're lost here, and we need to do _something_."

            "Well," said Michael acidly, "what if I dream about designing women's shoes? Would you like that?"

            "I would," said Lottie brightly, and grinned when Éomer gave her a dirty look.

            "Come on, mates, I'm fucking starving to death here. Anyone got a lollie or something?"

            "Can't you shut him up?" demanded Aragorn of Éowyn angrily.

            She stared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

            Michael looked at Éomer, who was glowering at Aragorn. Things were falling apart. He might as well undertake to do what he could. "I'll tell you everything I dream," he promised. Éomer's face cleared.

            "Well, it's better than nothing." He turned back to the table, where Legolas, grinning impudently, was driving Aragorn into a state of frustrated apoplexy normally reserved for people of more fragile temperaments. Michael sighed. Legolas was beautiful, but he certainly did know how to get under people's skin. "Come on," said Éomer, flashing his strong white teeth at Michael and Faramir. "Let's offer to take Legs out to the pub before Aragorn tries to kill him again."

            "All right," said Michael, cheered greatly at the prospect of having steak and kidney pie again. There was something so comforting about pub food – either the carbohydrates, or the fat. Whatever it was, Michael quite liked it, despite the fact he was eating something Extremely Unhealthy. And he was discovering that, like marksmanship, he was what Legolas called "a bloody dab hand" at darts, which served to dissolve the usual homophobic suspicion he engendered in the average pub. "I wouldn't mind a Guinness myself."

            "Don’t drink too much, though," cautioned Éomer, raising his eyebrows. "You get drunk, you might dream wrong."

            "If he Dreams, Éomer," said Faramir, coming up behind Michael and sliding his arms around his waist, "it won't be an accident. Trust me. When the Valar want to speak to him, they will."

            "Well, you'd know better than I would," grumbled Éomer, stomping out.

            Michael leaned back in Faramir's arms, felt his lover rest his chin on the top of his head. It was a comforting, protective gesture, but Michael still felt frustrated. Why couldn't the Valar just TELL them what to do? Why did they have to wait? Was it something Legolas had done, in bringing him back? Or was this part of the argument the Valar were having concerning Michael's fate? Why had Ossë apologized to Michael when he'd failed to take him back to Mandos? Nienna had told Faramir in his dream that Ossë had taken him out of pity, not cruelty. That was an uncomfortable thought. What was Ossë trying to save him from? What Strange and Horrible Things might be around the corner? It was a frightening prospect, and he fetched a deep breath, and felt Faramir's grip tighten. He turned in his lover's arms and rested his head on Faramir's collarbone.

            "Everything will be all right," said Faramir confidently, squeezing him close.

            Michael wanted to agree with him, but somehow he couldn't. He knew something was Horribly Wrong, and had the feeling they were heading down some terrible path, stumbling in the dark, but before he could voice this concern to Faramir, Legolas and Aragorn's argument degenerated into name-calling, and the party broke up.


	38. Tulkas Speaks

  1. **Tulkas Speaks**



 

 

            The hotel room was very dark and quiet. A square of street light lay crookedly across the bed, teasing Michael's eyes with its asymmetry. Through the thick-paned glass, he could hear the faint hum of traffic in the square below. The furniture, hulking and shadowy, loomed in the half-light like ungainly monsters, a metal brad here and there throwing back the pale light from the street. A pair of Faramir's pants hung over the back of the chair by the window, lumpy, fretfully mocking the human form. Michael sighed and rolled over. It was two o'clock in the morning and Michael knew he ought to be asleep, but he also knew there was no way in hell he could sleep now.

            Gimli and Faramir's redoubled efforts had paid off, and they had found Ahn. He was hiding in a hotel in Barrow-in-Furness, with seven operatives left. A crate of some sort, possibly containing either samples of the virus, or detailed instructions regarding its creation, or computer equipment, or all three, was scheduled to be shipped by sea, labeled simply "fossilized raptor stool," to Nha Trang in Vietnam from Tilbury.

            From there, it was not entirely certain what Ahn intended to do, but he had certainly booked himself three airfares to Haiphong from Heathrow, so, as Legolas had said, "Looks like 'e's going to scarper, eh?" What the remaining four operatives were doing was unknown, until Arwen had burst in earlier that evening, eyes alight, and said triumphantly: "They just bought train tickets to Dover. Bet you anything they'll pick up the ship there."

            That had seemed to settle things. They had to go in three directions at once, but bearing in mind there were ten of them, that wasn't much of a difficulty, even taking Legolas' blindness (and Michael and Doris' unwillingness to play James Bond) into consideration.

            Lottie, Éowyn, and Arwen donned stunningly abbreviated outfits – all legs and limbs and breasts and sequins – and traipsed off with cunningly hidden pistols and switchblades to find the four Dover operatives. Aragorn and Éomer had won the coin toss and gotten Ahn, much to their delight, and Faramir and Gimli's chagrin. Aragorn had said over his shoulder to them, as he and the hulking Éomer exited the hotel: "You guys are better suited to dig through that crate, anyway."

            That was true enough, Michael thought. If there were any sort of scientific or computer-type stuff in that crate, better Faramir and Gimli than a doctor and a field editor for a dirt bike magazine. Aragorn and Éomer had been chuckling as they left, grinning avidly, their eyes alight with a thirst for violence that had been disconcerting to Michael. He was not used to Aragorn acting in that fashion, but, when he voiced his concerns to Faramir, his lover had simply smiled and continued loading his .45.

            "Aragorn may be Dr. Walker of Burlington General Hospital now," he'd said, his eyes growing distant with memory. "But bear in mind he's pursued justice for many more years than you and I have known him." Then, with a preoccupied kiss farewell, he and Gimli had taken their leave, heading to the docks, their pockets heavy with firearms.

            That left Michael with Doris and Legolas. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, considering Michael's friendship with Doris and his natural physical attraction to the Alien, but it was unnerving, just sitting and waiting, especially since Legolas could do little but eat chocolates, mutter obscure swear words, and fidget.

            Michael and Doris tried to play bridge, but found neither of them could concentrate – that, and Legolas kept making rude jokes about the word "rubber" – then attempted to distract themselves by discussing Doris and Gimli's upcoming marriage, but talked themselves into a corner when they realized that Legolas, despite his obvious love for Gimli and friendship with Doris, was flatly refusing to give his opinion on the matter. This put them both into such a depression that they gave up, and after watching the news on TV, called it a night. Legolas went to his room, Doris to hers, and Michael to his.

            Eleven had passed, then midnight. For some reason, Michael had been holding his breath about midnight, hoping something would happen, but to his knowledge nothing did. Certainly there were no phone calls, no emails or IMs, nothing of the sort – a complete dearth of information.

            Midnight turned to one, then to two, and still he lay there, heart thumping nervously, mind a whirl of hope and fear and apprehension, wishing he weren't an interior designer but a spy or an assassin or something USEFUL. It was so superfluous being an interior designer. In the Grand Scheme of Things, no one really NEEDED an interior designer. It was just someone you hired to rearrange your furniture or pick new colors. Useless.

            Michael punched his pillow and rolled over. Speaking of useless, WHY was he still in bed? You'd think after three hours he'd have given up already. Even watching TV, or staring out the window, or giving himself a manicure was preferable. He had just worked himself up to the point that he was about to swing his legs over the edge of the bed when a heavy feeling of languor seemed to fall over him. His knees went soft and his body became torpid. The edges of his vision swam. Thinking perhaps sleep had found him at last, Michael relaxed, feeling himself sink into the soft mattress beneath him.

_Get up_

            A confused kaleidoscope of faces, voices crying out in surprise and alarm. A flash of light and the pop, pop, pop of gunfire. Sluggish dark oily water, churning with a sudden splash, and the spray of dark glutinous blood on slick boards. Michael's heart started to pound, and he felt the sting of adrenaline rush through him.

_It's a trap. Get up, get up!_

            The smell of turpentine and rotten fish in his nostrils, and the acrid scent of gun smoke. A rush of fear and the sickening realization that he had failed. Lights reeled and he lost his balance. Michael's legs jerked with the automatic reaction to right himself, and he sat up in bed, panting.

_How many lives are you willing to risk?_

            It was an odd question, and Michael was not entirely certain who had asked it. But enough people had died. Why should any more die who did not deserve it? He thought of the little Hispanic boy in the photo, and the hypothetical Twenty Million Koreans, and decided he was not strong enough to have that on his conscience.

            "None," he said to the empty room. It echoed a little on the hardwood floor and plaster walls.

_The Murderer will sell Sŏndŏk to China. It will be loosed there._

            He thought about that, could see the millions upon millions of faces watching him – slant and sloe-eyed, dark, broad faces, serious, anxious, afraid. Then he saw Death, Death in a white mask, striking them down, first the children and the elderly, then the women, then the men. He saw Death running along the rivers, a dark cloak spread out behind him. Could see the people fall, see them clutch at their throats, their eyes bulging, their tongues thick and blue. And ever Death ran, striking this way and that. Over the choked and polluted cities beneath their haze of smog, through the factories belching smoke into the air, over the slow sparkling rivers, the rolling meads dotted with desert flora, the cold white mountains, the villages huddled in emerald hills. Behind him fell the people, one million, ten million, two hundred million, thoughtlessly slain through random error. Old women with thin gray hair knotted at the backs of their necks, old men, toothless and smiling, the life struck from their black sparkling eyes. Young women, beautiful, withered and destroyed. Strong young men, clubbed down in their prime. And he saw children, millions upon millions of children, round-faced, bright-eyed, with rosy laughing mouths, shriveling and fading and dying, their broken-hearted mothers wailing their grief out, until Death too took their breath from them, and the houses were empty. Nothing could stop Sŏndŏk. No antibacterial drug or injection, no vaccine, no ameliorative pill. Sŏndŏk was Death, it was Death in a clear glass vial that shattered in a busy subway train somewhere in Beijing.

            "No," said Michael. It was not an option. That could simply not happen. Two hundred million people, dead because of Ahn's greed? "No. You have to stop it." He didn't know to whom he was speaking. He had no idea what the unknown voice would do. But he knew Death had to be stopped.

_I will stop it, Beloved Dreamer. Get up._

            Well, THAT was a mistake. The Valar never did something on their own. They always had to drag the Chosen into it somehow. But really, who else would this Vala ask? Doris? Out of the question. Legolas? Impossible, in his current state. Who else was there?

            Just Michael.

            Feeling a little sick, Michael got out of bed. He got out of his pajamas and pulled on some clothes – jeans, a shirt, a dark sweater. He was just tying his shoes when it occurred to him to wonder if he had a gun.

            "Will I need one?" he asked, a little apprehensively. He hoped he didn't. He hoped all he needed to do was to go somewhere, and flip a switch or something. _Please, no shooting,_ he begged the voice _,_ feeling a little sick to his stomach. He was not brave, not one iota. He could never be brave at two in the morning.

_Go to the Listener. He will give you his._

            That was not very comforting. Michael remembered Legolas' Glock .45, remembered its powerful kick, and the stiffness in his arms the day after he'd learned to use it. But if this voice told him to get a gun from Legolas, he would. Those hundreds of millions of Chinese innocents would ask little else from him, after all. What were sore arms for a couple of days, compared to all that death? Nothing – nothing at all. Michael picked up his door key from the dresser and let himself out into the hallway.

            The chandeliers gave off a sickly yellow light in the dark pre-dawn. Everything seemed to glare angrily at him. He was not supposed to be up. He was supposed to be in bed. The flickering bulbs winked at him and he squinted. He walked down the hall to Legolas and Éowyn's room and knocked softly.

            The door jerked open precipitately. Legolas must have known Michael was coming. He stood, clad only in his jeans, his long white hand on the lintel, his alabaster face tight with apprehension, eyes gazing sightlessly past him. Michael's heart sank even as he realized he had hoped that, at the last possible instant, Legolas' sight would be restored and Michael could stay home while the Alien did the Dirty Work. No such luck, though – Michael wasn't off the hook yet.

            "He spoke to you," said Legolas shortly, stepping aside to let Michael in. Michael entered. His hands felt numb and he wasn't sure he could speak coherently.

            "Yes," he said. His voice sounded higher than normal.

            Legolas stood, his eyes downcast and dark, pale hair swinging round his cheeks. Thin strong fingers twitched at the ends of the empty arms. "I can't help you," he said. His voice was bitter and angry.

            "No," said Michael. No need to beat around the bush. "I need your Glock."

            "Bugger." Legolas turned, groped around in his dresser until he found it and a few extra clips. He thrust it back at Michael, missing him completely. Michael simply moved in front of him and took the gun and the clips.

            "Don't tell Doris," he said. Legolas snorted.

            "Do I look daft?" he asked. Then he shook his head, his hair shimmering around his bare shoulders. He was beautiful, this Alien. All long lean sinewy muscle and shining pale skin and silky golden hair. But no sexual or aesthetic titillation touched Michael's heart. He was too scared. It was awful. It was like some high-pitched whine, a constant buzz in his brain. It clouded his vision but at the same time made the most ridiculous things seem to leap out at him. His heart was thumping erratically and he couldn't feel his feet. There was no courage to summon – he was dry, completely empty. He couldn't do it. Why should he do it? He was only Michael, only an interior designer. How could anyone expect him to do anything? Especially involving guns and death and intrigue. Ridiculous.

            Legolas reached out to him then, hands blindly fumbling for his face. Michael could feel how cold those long thin fingers were, and realized with mingled relief and consternation that Legolas was afraid, too.

            "Michael," said Legolas, his face serious and tense, taut with fear. "You are stronger than you think you are."

            That was not what Michael had been expecting him to say – something more along the lines of, "Good luck," or, "I'll send help as soon as I can," or even, "I'll come with you, nothing to worry about" were more what he had been wanting to hear. But Legolas' words seemed to echo in his head, and in tandem he heard his Vala's voice.

_You can do more than you think you can._

            It wasn't much, but it was enough. Michael nodded, forgetting Legolas couldn't see him, pocketed the gun and left the room.

            The elevator ride down to the lobby seemed very long. The red paneled walls glared back the bright nighttime lights, and when the doors opened they seemed unnaturally loud. Hoping not to attract attention, on the off-chance a stray policeman or agent might be watching them, Michael bypassed the concierge's desk and went straight to the front doors, his heart hammering.

            "Sir?"

            His heart stopped hammering and stood still. Swallowing, feeling a cold trickle worm its way down his spine, Michael turned, assuming an expression of mild surprise. "Yes?"

            The night clerk watched him, eyebrows puckered in amazement. "Is there anything you was wanting, sir?" he asked. His chinless face, somewhat blue about the extremities and crowned with a distasteful set of teeth, seemed foolish and thoughtless and harmless, and Michael breathed again. But still his heart hammered, so hard he was sure the clerk could hear it, or perhaps even see it fluttering in his chest.

            "No, thank you," said Michael primly. "Just going out for a little fresh air."

            He could see the look of frank disbelief in the man's face -- _in London?_ he seemed to say – but before the man could question him further, Michael pushed the doors open and was out on the street.

            "Okay," he said, looking up and down Jermyn Street, at its hum and rumble of late-night traffic and flashing neon lights. "Now what?"

_That cab. That one, there._

            It was as though his head had been turned on a stalk. Lining the sidewalk were a series of taxis in varying states of disrepute. The Voice seemed to be directing him to a bright yellow one. Taking a deep breath, Michael strode over to it and opened the back door.

            The cabbie had obviously been taking a nap. He jerked awake and turned, pushing his hat back up onto his head. He looked very angry. "Wha' thuh fuck?" he said thickly, scratching his armpit and glaring at Michael. "I wuz sleepin' 'ere."

            Michael took a deep breath. "I need to get to – " he paused, hoping the inner voice would prompt him. _The docks at Tilbury_ , said the voice, and Michael dutifully repeated: "The docks at Tilbury."

            "Eh, fuck off," muttered the cabbie, pushing his hat back down over his eyes and settling back against his seat, his arms folded belligerently across his chest. "Need me shut-eye, I do. Go bollock someone else."

            Michael was about to humbly slink from the cab out to the street to find another mode of transportation when a surge of indignation filled him. Two hundred million lives on the line, and this … this … JERK wanted a NAP? He took a deep breath and said firmly, "I'm sorry, this is an emergency. You need to take me to Tilbury NOW."

            The cabbie turned back around to stare at him through the grate. He seemed relatively young, with a spoiled and petulant face. Michael couldn't be sure, but he thought he could see dark curly hair beneath the greasy cap. " 'Ark at yer now," he said in amazement, his brows beetling angrily. "Yer need this and yer need that? Bloody 'mergency? Get a copper then." He turned away again, more definitively this time, and Michael lost his temper.

            "I'm getting tired of telling you what to do," he began hotly, only to become more incensed when the cabbie retorted rudely,

            "Then get th' fuck out."

            THAT did it. Out came the Glock, pressed into the back of the cabbie's curly head. Michael could see the shoulder's tense, heard the sharp intake of breath. "I'm getting tired of telling you what to do," he repeated, thinking it was a lot harder to speak when one's teeth were gritted than he'd originally supposed. "You are going to drive me to the Tilbury docks. Now."

            There was about five seconds of silence, punctuated only with deep, ragged breaths from the cabbie in front of him. Michael wondered how long he'd be put in jail for menacing a taxi driver.            

            “All right then," said the cabbie, his voice tight. The taxi started, and then pulled out into traffic.

            They were silent during the drive through town, and when the cabbie exited onto the A13, Michael shifted his hand a little. It was getting stiff. He could see the cabbie watching him in his rear-view mirror, could see the brown worried eyes, the trickle of sweat down the rosy cheeks. He felt a little sorry for the cabbie, but honestly, with a Vala at your back, you couldn't really say no.

            They took the A1089 into Tilbury. It was nearly four in the morning and Michael was starting to feel very sandy-eyed, but he didn't dare move the gun. What if the cabbie suddenly decided to mutiny? When they took the exit into the docks, the voice returned.

_Tell him to park at the gate of Queen Elizabeth and wait._

            "Park at the gate of Queen Elizabeth and wait," Michael repeated dutifully. The cabbie swallowed hard and nodded.

            Ten more minutes passed as they left the main roads and followed progressively narrower streets. At last the cab could go no further. There was nothing ahead of them but greasy darkness cut by a single streetlight. All around them were buildings, dark and empty. The cabbie put the taxi into park and sat back.

            "How long d'yer want me ter wait?" he asked, his voice subdued.

            "I don't know," said Michael, looking around nervously. It reminded him a lot of the docks in Miami. He would have given anything for a couple of nice friendly prostitutes right now, if for nothing else but companionship – it seemed very lonely and empty out there. "But if you want to get paid – and paid a lot – " he shook the gun at the cabbie, who was watching Michael nervously through the rear-view mirror – "you'll sit tight and wait 'til I get back."

            "You're the cap'n," said the cabbie flatly. Michael bit his lip and got out of the cab. He half expected the cabbie to put his foot to the floor and take off for the closest constable, but something – the promise of remuneration, perhaps – kept him there, and the cabbie cut the headlights and turned the car off.

            Michael pocketed the gun, not liking the thought of running into a bobbie on his beat holding a Glock .45. "All right," he said. "Now what?"

_I am Tulkas. I am the Hunter._

            The name "Tulkas" meant little to nothing to Michael, but the title "Hunter" explained a good deal. They were hunting Ahn … naturally Tulkas would be concerned. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

_Walk to the end of the alley and turn right. Then turn left at the head of the next alley. You will find some containers. Go to the corner of the leftmost container and look around the corner. Try not to make any noise, and try not to be seen._

            "All right," said Michael.

            Glad he'd put on his sneakers and not oxfords, he crept down the alley. It was damp and smelled very bad, and the stone pavers were slick with a slimy mold that clung to the soles of his shoes. He hugged the dark shadows, cringing back from the walls at first, but then he firmly told himself this was NOT the time to be squeamish, and pressed up against them, thinking resignedly to himself that he'd effectively ruined a perfectly good Ralph Lauren sweater. At last he reached a huge stack of shipping containers, looming like a poorly-constructed building in front of him. He kept to the left, slipped around a corner, and peered out.

            He was right near the edges of the docks. He could hear the water, could smell its detritus, could even catch a glimpse of its oily surface, gleaming slightly in the dimness. There was a truck parked at the dock, and a small boat that looked like a fishing boat of some kind. Michael was reminded of the two-man lobster boats he had seen in Casco Bay when they were in Maine.  

            He could see a movement there, some men shifting around, and some horrible lump on the ground that looked disturbingly like a dead body. There was a grunt and a muttered curse, and the gleam of light on metal. Michael edged closer, hoping to see more. Who was it? Were they operatives? What were they doing? Then he saw a large crate, and he understood. He could just read the "Raptor Stool, Biohazard" label on it. He squinted. Wasn't there something familiar about the two men with the crate? Then one of them gave a breathless laugh, and he understood. The dead man on the ground was an operative. The two men lifting the crate from the truck were Faramir and Gimli.

            Michael's chest felt hot with relief, and his eyes seemed to swim. So that was all there was to it – there was no real danger. Tulkas had just wanted him to help out, that was all. He took a deep breath, preparing to step out from behind the container, but then felt a huge invisible hand thrust him back so hard it knocked out his breath.

_IT'S A TRAP!_

            Three swift pops and flashes of light, a surprised shout, a horrible gurgle and splash. The clatter of feet and another shout, then a terrible laugh. Michael struggled to his feet and rushed around the corner of the container. Gimli was gone, and Faramir stood at bay, facing down three men, all of whom had rifles trained on him. Michael opened his mouth to shout a warning, but then the air was full of light and sound, and Faramir's body jerked with the force of the bullets. Then he fell.

            Through the roaring in his ears, all Michael could hear was a man's voice, clipped, giving orders coolly as though nothing had happened. Then Tulkas spoke.

_Come along, now. The Dreamer becomes the Hunter._

            Without thinking, Michael raised the Glock. He knew now why he had been blessed with such good aim. His hand was surprisingly steady. At the back of his mind he could hear himself wondering how he could possibly think of killing another human being. He was an interior designer; he wasn't a spy or an assassin. This was not his Place. He couldn't do it.

            Then he heard Legolas' voice. _You are stronger than you think you are_. And he saw the faces of children, of millions of Chinese children, begging him to save them.

            He squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession, and the three men fell.

            He stepped around the corner of the container, smelling the smoke, seeing the gleaming light on the sluggish water, the fuzzy and indistinct fluorescent light above them illuminating the grotesque scene. Three men dead, and by his hand. Blood everywhere. And on his back, his face staring blankly at the sky, Faramir. His chest was torn open, and it was dark with blood. Michael could see, out of the corner of his eye, some large thing bobbing listlessly in the water, face down: Gimli, his long grizzled hair fanned out over the surface of the water. Michael knew that if the sun were up, he would be able to see the bloom of blood there, too.

_Take care now, Beloved Hunter. Your prey still breathes._

            There was a movement at the back of the truck, a man stepping cautiously down the steps to the dock. A small Asian man stood there, contemplating Michael with a clinical curiosity. In his hands were a keychain and a cell phone. His face was smooth, hairless and without wrinkles, but the hair at the temples was graying in the glossy blackness. Then he gave a humorless smile, and Michael's heart, already worn out from the constant hammering, turned over with new fear.

            Ahn.


	39. Himmler's Heir

  1. **Himmler’s Heir**



 

 

            What flummoxed Michael the most was that Ahn didn't _look_ like a madman. In fact, he looked like nothing more than an urbane, well-educated, middle-aged Asian man in dark clothes. He had been expecting – what? Horns, a pitchfork? Evil glowing red eyes? He remembered seeing photos of some of the Nazi concentration camp doctors and shuddered. Those men had kissed their wives and children each morning and gone off to work – to torture and kill people in many Horrible and Inhumane Ways, just because they hadn't considered those peoples' lives to be as significant as theirs. Well, it just went to show you that you couldn't judge a book by its cover. In other words, he thought, fighting down his panic, you couldn't plumb the depths of depravity in a man's soul simply by the way he looked. Hundreds of cheap drinks and Happy Hours had taught him that.

            And Ahn was watching him, with the same cold, dead eyes as a snake. Michael's skin prickled all over, as though someone had thrown some mild acid on it. His limbs were frozen in place, yet his joints felt weak. He knew his heart was beating so fast he was surprised it hadn't burst. Maybe it would. Maybe he'd just keel over dead from a heart attack and Ahn would get away. He looked at Ahn, at the cool emotionless eyes, the mouth curved slightly into an ironic smile, the small, well-kept hands that had created the Sŏndŏk. He straightened his spine. NO. That was not an option. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the smoking Glock.

            Ahn's dark eyes flicked down at the gun. He seemed almost disinterested. "So," he said. His voice was soft and sibilant, and carried only a hint of an accent. "Which one are you?"

            That implied an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the Chosen, of their names and titles and roles, and Michael wasn't at all sure he liked that. He shifted his feet and raised the Glock, making sure Ahn was in his sights. Ahn smiled again.

            "Ah," he said. "The little blond faggot."

            Michael flinched. That hurt. Then he saw a smug look cross that impassive face, and it made him angry. Ahn had said that on purpose. He was trying to hurt Michael. Michael decided it didn't matter what Ahn said – it didn't matter, because Tulkas was with him.

 _You are with me, aren't you?_ he asked in his head, desperately afraid.

            _Yes, Beloved Dreamer. I am here with you. Did I not send you here? Have courage. I will steady your hand. Do not be afraid._

            _Easy for you to say_ , thought Michael, but he felt better nonetheless, knowing Tulkas the Hunter was with him. The prickling in his skin faded, and he straightened up and cocked the gun. Ahn did not even blink.

            "You are the gay programmer's lover, yes?" said Ahn calmly.

            Michael considered his options. He could say, _á la_ Legolas, "None of your fucking business," but wouldn’t Ahn just smile and know that such language wasn't Normal for him? Or he could assume a matching impassive expression and say, "Well, what of it?" Or he could just do what he was doing at the moment, which was standing there staring at Ahn like a stunned duck. Well, whatever worked.

            Ahn looked down at the limp form at his feet, at the splayed limbs and splattered blood, and the still, breathless chest, and his smile deepened.

            "You are no longer lovers, I think," he said.

            Michael's heart turned to cold lead. Faramir was dead – Michael had watched him get gunned down. _Please, please don't let me think of it now,_ he thought. _Please, please help me just get through this – the next minute – the next couple of minutes – let me get to the end of this and then I'll break down, I'll scream, I'll cry, I'll shoot myself. But I need to finish this first. H_ e knew that to glance down at Faramir's sprawled bloody body would be the End – it would Hit Him, and he would crack, and Ahn would get away, and he would have Failed. Faramir had been willing to die to make sure Ahn was captured. Michael would have to be willing, too. So he relentlessly blocked that thought, the Michael-is-alone-forever thought, out of his mind and fixed his eyes on Ahn, holding the gun steady. He noticed, with a sort of clinical detachment, that it had already started to cool against his palm.

            "You are very heartless," said Ahn softly, his eyes drooping. "Your lover lies at your feet in a pool of blood, and you do not even look to him?"

            "Heartless" – that was rich. Ahn telling Michael he was heartless? Michael, who was nearly ALL heart? This man, this soft-voiced, cold-blooded reptile, was the heartless one. Michael felt his jaw clench, and the heat of anger made his pain recede a little. And he could tell Tulkas was there – it was nearly palpable, the strong hand holding him up so that he could do what needed to be done.

            Michael looked at Ahn, at the cool emotionless face, and his anger increased. Didn't this man KNOW? Didn't he realize what Sŏndŏk could DO? He couldn't POSSIBLY be that stupid, that naïve.

            "Pot calling the kettle black," said Michael, suddenly and bitterly. His voice sounded harsh and calloused in the thick night air. He had never sounded like that before. He had always been high-pitched, girlish, lyrical. It was a strangely impressive change.  But Ahn only smiled again.

            "Ah," said Ahn. He seemed to think he had scored a point somehow, that getting Michael to talk was weighing in his favor. Perhaps it was. "You refer to my creation, yes?"

            "It's going to kill millions of people," said Michael. Despite the damp chill of the murky pre-dawn, a trickle of sweat rolled down Michael's shoulder blades, finding the gap in his trousers and making its tickly way down his backside. He wanted to twitch, to clench his buttocks, to stop it, but he didn't dare move.

            Ahn shrugged. "They are only North Koreans," he said carelessly. "Their lives, they are already unhappy. I offer them release from slavery, from their miserable existence."

            "What about the Chinese?" asked Michael.

            A flicker of surprise and fear marred the marble-whiteness of Ahn's face. Then the shutters went down, angrily this time.

            "You are very clever," he said. "How did you find out about that?"

            Michael hesitated. Dared he tell Ahn how he knew? Would Ahn even believe him? And did it matter? _What am I supposed to do?_ he asked Tulkas desperately, but all Tulkas did was chuckle, which was slightly reassuring but not very helpful. Michael sifted through several responses before deciding to say something he'd heard Arwen say once, dryly and condescendingly. He knew he'd never be able to quite put that insulting edge to his voice that she seemed to have mastered, but he felt certain the phrase itself would put Ahn off.

            "I have my sources," he said.

            But Ahn smiled at that, and looked down at Faramir again. "Yes," he said, his voice heavy with contempt. "Quite an intelligent man, a very good programmer. He managed to trip up Fitzpatrick at Chinp'yŏng. I was very impressed." Then he looked up at Michael through his lashes, smiling cruelly. "But he will not be any longer a source of information for you, yes? He is finished, like you are finished."

            Michael went cold. I _s this a trap? Am I going to die, too?_ Michael asked Tulkas in a panic. He wanted to turn round in circles, look up, hide, try to find whatever operatives were left and get away. But Tulkas was there, soothing, strong.

_He is bluffing. He is alone, but you are not alone. Have courage. I am with you._

            Michael felt better. He had Tulkas. Ahn had no one. He remembered the meeting on Norman Island, when Éowyn talked about killing off the two senators – Ahn didn't have any political support in the United States any more. He remembered Fitzpatrick's death and knew that Ahn didn't have any military support either. All he'd had, at the end of it, were his seven operatives, some money from a Swiss bank account that Gimli had flushed with a grunt of pleasure the morning before, and this crate – whatever was in it, that was supposed to go to Vietnam. That could not happen.

            "I'm not finished yet," he said. His voice sounded thin and boyish in the thick heavy night, but his words had a chilling effect on Ahn. The dark eyes tightened, and Michael could see desperation there. Ahn straightened a little, put on a mask of a smile, and said,

            "So tell me, how did you escape the bomb in San Diego? Fitzpatrick's men were very angry, that what they had tried to do had failed."

            Michael thought about Legolas, about his insistence that Michael come with him, that he stay put, that he climb down the fire escape to safety. And he thought about Legolas, killing Fitzpatrick's men, rescuing him, shooting Fitzpatrick, generally making a nuisance of himself from Ahn's perspective. Legolas had been a stumbling-block of cosmic proportions. Michael felt his mouth stretch out into a grin, not a nice grin but a rather Evil and Gloating grin, which had the pleasant effect of making Ahn look very nervous.

            "Ancient Chinese Secret," he said, and this time his voice was stronger. But Ahn's unease translated itself into anger.

            "You mean that yellow-haired motorcycle driver," he said, and his voice broke and rasped. The milky, soothing quality was gone. "He is dead. I saw the video at Chinp'yŏng. He cannot help you now."

 _Now_. It was an echo of that last word, but from Tulkas it had a very different meaning. Michael put Ahn definitively in his sights, his arms straight and steady. A bead of sweat meandered down Ahn's temple and into his collar.

            "Legolas is not dead because he can't die," said Michael, determined to drive the point home so that Ahn would at least understand something about why he'd failed. "He's at the hotel in London, waiting for me."

            "I don't believe you," said Ahn flatly, his eyes going narrow.

            Michael shrugged. "So what?" He raised the gun. Ahn's hands twitched. It looked as though he were about to raise them, to plead for mercy, but then he stopped himself angrily.

            "So this not-dead man, he has left you to do the dirty work, yes?" he said, his voice venomous. "Just sent you out to watch your lover die and to kill me all by yourself. He is not, I think, a trustworthy friend, little homosexual."

            "Legolas didn't send me out," said Michael indignantly. "He wanted to do it, but couldn't. And," he added, feeling very miffed at having been dragged into a conversation with Ahn, "if he HAD come out you would have been dead BEFORE you could say anything. He's MUCH more efficient than I am."

            "Look," said Ahn, raising his hands palm-out in supplication. His face was damp with sweat, and he was smiling nervously. "You have no reason to kill me now. My men are dead, you have my crate. Let me go on the boat and I will go away, I will not come back. You do not need to kill me, I am finished now."

            Michael hesitated. Truth be told, he really, REALLY didn't want to kill Ahn. He had killed the three operatives quickly and when his blood was hot, but to stand there, look into this man's eyes, and pull the trigger …. Michael wasn't sure he could do it. And Ahn really did look frightened. He was probably right – all his men dead, his effects left behind, his Swiss bank account wiped. What harm could he cause now?

_Beware, Beloved Dreamer. His heart is corrupt and his mind is sharp. He will recreate Sŏndŏk and sell it to the Chinese. You must stop him. It is time._

            Michael swallowed. Well, this was it.

            _Yes, my lord_ , he said humbly. That made more sense, actually. The trappings were gone, but the core, the heart, the brain was still there. The web was torn and tattered, but the spider with its venomous sting remained.

            Ahn could see the resolution grow in Michael's eyes, and his voice grew tight with panic. "They are only North Koreans!" he said again, his eyes a little wild. "Why do you care about them?"

            "For the same reason I care about the two hundred million Chinese who are going to die because of you," said Michael firmly, setting his shoulders, preparing for the Glock's kick.

            Ahn tried to laugh this off. "Ah," he said breathlessly. "There are too many Chinese. This will cull the population so that the rest can have more resources."

            Ahn was trying to convince Michael that the deaths were insignificant – almost an economic benefit! As if you could "cull" people, children and old women, the way people culled herds of deer. Well, if that was the way Ahn thought people should be treated, Tulkas was right – Ahn needed to die.

            It was an odd feeling, this resolution, this strength. It was as though he could see everything from above – the beginnings of things, the ends of things. The whole world and the way things worked in it – all peppered with tiny, individual, significant souls, crying out for Justice. One callous man was not worth this vague philosophical discussion, and dawn was approaching.

            "Frankly," said Michael firmly, "if shooting you keeps them alive, I don't know why I'm even bothering to talk to you. You obviously think you can do what you want, but I'm here to show you that you can't. Now. Enough's enough."

            Ahn's eyes filled with tears. He looked panic-stricken. He raised his trembling hands in supplication, and he was perspiring freely. "If you kill me, you'll go to Hell!" he cried, his voice squeaking with terror.

            Michael shook his head sadly, gave Ahn an apologetic look. "I've already been there," he admitted, and squeezed the trigger.


	40. Angels Unaware

  1. **Angels Unaware**



 

 

            The report was deafening. It seemed a lot louder than the first three shots he'd fired, and the kick was definitely stronger – his shoulder jerked back painfully, and sparks flashed before his eyes.

            He panicked – had he missed? Would Ahn escape? He blinked, shook his head, looked around wildly through the thin wispy smoke. Where was he? Where was Ahn? But then the smoke cleared, and Michael saw him. The force of the bullet's entry had thrown him back against the truck door and he lay, arms spread wide and feet turned inward, propped up against the steps. His eyes were still open but they did not seem to see Michael. They stared past him, horrified, afraid. There was a large gaping hole in the dark shirt, and something even darker and very wet was spreading around it. Michael stared at it. It was blood – lots of blood – and the chest was motionless. Ahn wasn't breathing.

            Michael looked down at the Glock, puzzled. He had aimed at Ahn's head – right between the eyes. He'd wanted to put the bullet right in the center of that detestable brain and stop it up for good, destroy the Sŏndŏk once and for all. But despite his perfect aim, the bullet had obviously pierced Ahn's heart, killing him instantly. How had he managed to miss so Efficiently?

_It was not his brain but his heart that was diseased._

            Oh, that was just FINE. Shooting him in the head wasn't GOOD enough. Tulkas just had to make his little point, didn't he? Michael was indignant. Had Ahn not possessed such a fine brain, the Sŏndŏk would never have been conceived, bad heart or not.

 _Bad hearts and small brains are just as horrible, Beloved Dreamer_. The voice was gentle, chiding, seeming to smile and rebuke at the same time, and Michael thought about the operative he and Lottie had killed on Prince Edward Island. A stupid man, but an appalling one nonetheless. And weren't good-hearted but stupid people pretty innocuous? Perhaps brains were over-rated

_Well done, Beloved Dreamer. You have excelled at the task given you. We are very pleased with you._

            Then there was a chorus of voices in his head, rich voices, strong and joyful and jubilant. The Valar were thanking him. HIM! Him, Michael Morris, Interior Designer and the King of Non-Confrontation! Michael Morris, who had spent his entire life fleeing bullies, fixing his hair and keeping his fingernails clean! Little swishy blond bottom Michael Morris! He had done it! HE had done it! All by himself, with no Legolas jumping in and taking bullets for him, no Lottie smoothly slipping the hypodermic needle inside someone's arm! Michael had done it! He'd done what they'd all been trying to do! He had KILLED AHN! His heart seemed to echo back the exultant celebration ringing through his head, and his mind spun with images of light and music and bright trumpets ringing. He took a deep breath, choked a little on the smoke, and then he remembered Francis.

            He had known it would Hit Him, and Hit Him it did. It was as though a sledgehammer struck him full-force in the stomach, toppling him, expelling his breath, shattering every organ he owned. His vision faded. Ahn's dead body melted away in a gathering peripheral darkness, and the lights on the truck wobbled. He felt his knees buckle, and heard the thunk of the Glock hitting the wooden dock at his feet. Cold tendrils snaked their way down his limbs. His arms began to shake, and then he felt himself land heavily on his knees. He thrust numb hands out to steady himself. The floor of the dock was slimy and cold beneath his palms, and there was no strength in him.

            The sob tore itself out of his chest with a violent retching noise. His heart was fracturing. He could feel it ripping inside of him, could hear a high-pitched squealing noise in his ears, feel the heavy throb of pain against the backs of his eyes. A tremor cleaved his torso and hot anger and disbelief flooded him, though his arms were still cold and weak, and he felt as though his head had ruptured with the force of his pain.

_Breathe. Breathe, beloved Dreamer._

            "No," whimpered Michael, trying to push the voices out of his head. They were already nearly drowned by the cacophonic explosions detonating somewhere at the top of his spine. "No, leave me, leave me – "

            His lungs were bursting. He felt as he had when Ossë had drowned him. He needed oxygen. His sobs had squeezed his chest empty, and his heart hurt so much he didn't think he COULD inhale.

_Breathe, Beloved._

            Michael gulped in a shallow breath, only to have it exhaled when he retched and sobbed again.

_Breathe._

            He couldn't breathe, didn't even want to. He wanted to die, right there, so that his pain would go away. He dropped his forehead to the wet dock, smelled turpentine, dirty water, mold.

            Arms enfolded him. Warmth engulfed him, lips touched his. Air rushed into his beleaguered lungs, and the shrieking in his head abated. But when Michael opened his eyes, no one was there – only the bell-pure quivering sense of Presence residing somewhere inside of him, making him breathe, making him see again. His vision swam, and he seemed to see Nienna, tall and gray-clad and glowing eerily in the darkness, holding out her long slender arms to him, her bright eyes occluded with tears.

_Beloved Dreamer, beloved of the Steward, rise and go to him._

            Michael's limbs felt a little stronger now that he had enough oxygen in him. He staggered to his feet, trying not to look at Ahn, and stumbled numbly to Francis' side. His feet felt heavy, like lead, and his joints didn't want to bend. He stopped by Francis' body, and dropped back to his knees without even a passing thought to what he was doing to his Tommy Hilfiger jeans. He didn't want to look – and yet – he had to face it eventually, despite the horror, the appalling future he faced. He had to face it -- he knew he had to. So he forced himself to look down at his dead lover.

            Francis seemed startled but not afraid. His eyes were wide open and glassy, and his hair was mussed. His mouth was open a little, showing his white even teeth. Fortunately the bullets had not marred his beautiful face. However, his chest was riddled with scorches and holes, and the front of his jacket was thick and sticky with clotting blood.

            Michael choked out another painful sob and touched Francis' cheek. It was very cold. He stared into those sightless, lifeless gray eyes and sobbed again. Francis could not see him. Francis would never look at him, never wink at him, never give him that sly, sidelong look out of those lovely gray eyes.

            "Why?" he moaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, hot tears tracing their way down to his chin. Why did he have to die? Why FRANCIS? Couldn't they have stopped it? Why did they take Francis from him NOW? It would have been better, far better if Michael had simply up and drowned and stayed in Mandos with Oropher and Gil-Galad. Then he wouldn't know the twisting anguish of his death.

            But then … who would have killed Ahn?

            Was that why Legolas had been permitted to bring him back?

            Tulkas spoke then. His normally cheery voice sounded somber. _Beloved Dreamer, to some have been given the doom of death. To others, the curse of immortality. Do not envy those who die not, nor should you desire death when it is not your time._

            Michael put his face in his hands. He didn't want to hear them anymore. He wanted no more visions, no more cold comfort. But then Tulkas chuckled.

_Weep not for the Steward. Even as it is not your time to die, neither is it his._

            Something rasped and rattled on the dock beneath his bowed head. With a galvanic inward leap, Michael pulled his hands from his face and looked down at Francis. Francis' chest was heaving, struggling to take oxygen in to those torn and punctured lungs, and his eyes were blinking away the cobwebs, trying to focus on Michael's face. His dark eyebrows dived into a V on his forehead, and his mouth, spitting pink bloody froth, worked furiously a moment. Then he said, in a thin reedy voice:

            "Michael?"

            Michael's brain exploded in light, and he could practically feel his heart fly up through his chest into his head. He gathered up as much of Francis as he could in his shaking arms and pressed him, sticky and bloody but alive, alive, ALIVE against his body, convulsing with relieved sobs. He could barely think. The only two things running through his mind were, "Francis is alive! Francis isn't dead!" and Tulkas' hearty, booming laugh. Even the implications didn't bother him. He didn't care if Francis – Faramir – were human or not. Faramir was ALIVE!

            He felt one of Faramir's arms weakly encircle him, felt him move sluggishly beneath him, coughing slightly. "Ahn?" he croaked against Michael's neck. Michael could feel the blood coming out of Faramir's mouth, but he didn't care.

            "Dead," Michael gurgled. He could barely speak, his throat was gripped so tightly. "Oh Faramir, I thought you were dead, oh darling I thought you were dead, I was so upset – "

            "Turnabout's – fair play," gasped Faramir, the fingers of one hand twitching, trying to hold Michael but still too weak to get a good grip. Michael sobbed even harder, pressing his face into Faramir's bloody, bullet-pocked chest. "Who – how – "

            "I shot him," said Michael. He pulled away from Faramir, resting him carefully on the wet dock boards and fumbling for a tissue to wipe some of the pink foam from his lover's mouth. "After he shot you – and – and Gimli – oh no – " He remembered Gimli then, remembered that he had been shot too, and that Doris' poor heart would surely break when she found out. But – wasn't Gimli -- ? If he wasn't human … "Um," he said shakily, taking in a deep shuddering breath and dabbing at Faramir's face, "I suppose if we get him up out of the river, he'll come back to life, too?"

            Faramir gasped a few times, fresh pink foamy bubbles spilling from his mouth. "Urgh … yes," he admitted, and started to cough again, great tearing coughs, as though his lungs were coming to pieces. "Hell's – bells, how – many times did those – bastards shoot me?"

            "I don't know," gulped Michael, scrubbing impatiently at his own tears with the back of his hand. Remembering the sound of gunfire, remembering how long they'd been there, he started to feel afraid. It was all very well to be incarcerated by the police when you were paralyzed with shock and grief, but he didn't have time to be paralyzed now – they needed to get back to the hotel as soon as possible. He scrabbled back on his feet and straightened his bloodied sweater.

            "Faramir," he said, annoyed to hear how high and tremulous his voice sounded. "Look, I made a lot of noise, we need to get out of here – " He started to pull anxiously at Faramir's arm, trying to get him up. "Can you stand up?"

            "I don't – " began Faramir, but then he started, staring at something behind Michael, and he froze, his eyes wide in astonishment. Michael whipped around, expecting to see more operatives, or a policeman, or something Equally Horrible, but instead a short, stout man in dark clothes, sporting a greasy cap over his curls, stood at the corner, staring with horrified amazement at the carnage in front of him.

            Michael felt like cursing – he'd forgotten all about the CABBIE! It would have been hard enough getting Faramir, bloodied and weak, back into the cab as it was. Now the driver was looking at five bodies, a truck, and a crate, and there was no chance in Mandos he'd overlook it just for the sake of a whacking big tip.

            Michael swallowed, wondering what, if anything, he should say. He supposed he could shoot the cabbie – that would shut him up – but – could Michael kill an innocent man? Legolas did, but – Michael didn't think he could, didn't think he had it in him. He supposed he ought to be ashamed of this weakness, but despite the tension of the situation he was unable to.

            The cabbie walked forward slowly, hesitantly, his brown eyes wide. His shoes made a hollow clunking noise on the wet dock boards.

            "Bloody hell," he murmured softly, looking from the bodies to the crate to Faramir and Michael. He shook his head and approached, wary, his eyes everywhere, taking off his cap and scratching his head. He replaced the cap and stopped, darting a glance behind him, then looked down to Faramir, who lay limp, soaked in blood. He shot a cautious look at Michael, flicked his eyes to the abandoned Glock, and with a hurried movement picked it up, examined it carefully, then, to Michael's horror, prudently pocketed it. He spared a sharp glance down at Ahn, peered into the back of the truck, then stepped over to where Michael hovered protectively over Faramir, who was still gasping and coughing. He shook his head at them, pursing his lips.

            Michael tensed, ready to throw himself between Faramir and the cabbie, ready to remonstrate, threaten, yell. He would NOT let this man ruin everything – even if he had to convince the cabbie to take him and leave Faramir, he would NOT let Faramir go to jail! The cabbie studied him, his brown eyes unreadable, then let his gaze rove over Faramir. Suddenly he grinned.

            "You look like hell, mate," he said to Faramir.

            "Feel like it," croaked Faramir, a weak smile stretching his bloodied lips.

            "Well!" The cabbie glanced around again, then rubbed his hands together briskly. "Best be gettin' goin', hey?"

            Michael stared at him. He must REALLY be expecting a big tip. Either that, or he was going to take them directly to the hospital – or the police station – well, at this point, did it really matter? A quick check in the crate would convince any inspector of police that this was a Political Matter and needed to be dealt with at a different level.

            "He's hurt," he said reproachfully to the cabbie, who had knelt on the other side of Faramir and was pulling him abruptly into a sitting position. The cabbie gave him a disgusted look.

            "Do I _look_ daft?" he said contemptuously, helping Faramir up. "Of course he's hurt, you idiot. Can't take bullets to the chest without a little pain involved."

            Michael opened his mouth to give him a sharp reply, but then he paused. He heard footsteps – not just the clunk, clunk, clunk of someone walking down the dock. It was the rapid patter of someone running pell-mell toward them, heedless of care or stealth. The cabbie heard it too, and stiffened, looking nervously behind them and fiddling in his pocket for Michael's Glock.

            The running steps grew nearer. Then they could discern two sets of footsteps – the cabbie glanced at Michael, who gulped. One man was bad enough – what was he going to do about TWO? Hadn't he killed enough people for one night? What on earth did Tulkas want of him, anyway?

_Courage, Little One._

            Easy for HIM to say. But Michael lowered Faramir to the boards and rose slowly to his feet, flexing his hands. They wouldn't catch him unprepared, at least.

            The sound of hoarse breathing, footsteps clattering nearer. Then he saw two dark, shadowy figures hurtling round the corner of the containers. The first skidded to a stop on the slick surface, breathing hard and holding his side. It was Éomer, face gleaming with sweat, cheeks burnished, chest heaving. Michael felt his heart dissolve – backup – MANLY backup! Surely Aragorn was with him, and now Michael didn't have to worry any more.

            "Holy – shit," Éomer gasped, panting, looking quickly around him. "Dammit – too late – shit!"

            "What the hell do you mean?" demanded the cabbie angrily. "You're just in time, you stupid pillock. Help us up with him, will you?"

            Éomer blinked at the cabbie, his pale eyes confused. Behind him, sure enough, Aragorn slowed, also panting and red-faced. He had a handgun out, which he stowed rapidly when he saw the cabbie kneeling besides Faramir.

            "What happened?" he demanded, and Michael winced. Figures Aragorn would pull the Authority Card on everyone. Suddenly Michael felt a good deal of sympathy for Legolas – do the dirty work, then have an explanation dragged out of you while you're still humming with adrenaline? No wonder Legolas was so short-tempered with Aragorn sometimes.

            "Ahn and his operatives are dead," said Michael curtly, glaring at him. "Faramir and Gimli got shot. Gimli's in the river."

            "Fuck!" Éomer staggered to the edge of the dock, looking down into the water. Then, when no body was visible, looked further out into the stream. "Oh – there he is – I see him floating downriver." He turned back to Aragorn. "Better take the boat out and pick him up. Doris'll never forgive us."

            Aragorn ignored him, went straight to the crate. "Is this Ahn's crate?" he asked, giving Michael a sharp glance.

            "I suppose so," said Michael doubtfully, and Faramir croaked, "Yes." Aragorn looked down at Faramir, saw he was breathing, and went to the truck, stepping casually over Ahn's body as he did so. Michael could hear him rummaging around in there, then he came out with a crowbar. "Éomer," he said shortly. "Help me with this."

            "Fuck that," said Éomer, starting to catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his thick blond hair and trotted up to Aragorn, who was standing beside the crate. Michael felt a sudden flash of admiration for his Physical Fitness, to be able to run so hard, so fast, and still keep moving. "Look, let's put the crate on the boat and get Gimli and get the hell out of here." He gestured toward Michael, Faramir, and the cabbie with his chin. "They've got it covered."

            Aragorn glanced over at Michael. The gray eyes seemed to be weighing him somehow. Michael glared back, arms folded across his chest. He was in no mood to be either bullied or condescended to, especially by someone who (a) arrived late, and (b) started spouting orders as soon as he got there. Aragorn's mouth quirked into a smile. He had seen the defiance on Michael's face, and apparently found it funny. That didn't do much for Michael's sense of humor, but as Aragorn immediately turned away to help Éomer lift the crate he supposed it didn't matter much. After all, they couldn't just LEAVE the crate there – SOMEONE had to take charge of it, and better one of Them than an Outsider.

            "That it, then?" asked the cabbie, looking from Aragorn and Éomer to Michael. "They take the crate and we skive off?"

            "Yes," said Michael firmly, giving Aragorn's back a resentful glare. "Let's go."

            He helped the cabbie lift Faramir to his feet, and one on either side of him, they walked slowly past the containers. Michael glanced back before they turned the corner. He could just see Éomer and Aragorn heaving the crate into the little lobster boat. Despite his anger, he felt relieved that they had showed up. It would have been unwise to leave all that stuff behind, and – Michael felt a little guilty as the next thought hit him – Aragorn was probably miffed that Michael had gotten his job done for him. After all, Aragorn and Éomer HAD won the coin-toss, and hadn't everyone wanted to kill Ahn? Poor fellow, he was probably feeling pretty foolish about now. Michael shook his head and firmly put Aragorn out of his thoughts.

            He and the cabbie helped Faramir, who was still wheezing, up the alley to where the cab sat, lights out, dark and quiet. Not a word was spoken. Faramir could barely breathe and it took everything he had just to limp along. Michael deposited him as carefully as possible in the back of the cab, and let the driver close the door behind them, and get in the front seat and start the taxi.

            "Want to scarper, I'm assuming," said the cabbie, leaning his arm along the back of his seat and backing out of the Queen Elizabeth gate.

            "If you don't mind," said Michael, bemused. His adrenaline was starting to peter out, and he felt a little light-headed. He settled back in the seat, holding Faramir's hand firmly.

            "Right you are then," said the cabbie. He turned the taxi and pulled out into the early-morning traffic.

            Michael looked at the sky, amazed. It was turning pink, and little greenish-gray clouds dotted the darkness. It was Dawn, coming, as Legolas had said mischievously once, Early and with Rosy Fingers. Buildings rolled by, dark and dirty and ponderous. Streetlights faded into blue-white specks. a few trucks and vans passed them.

            He turned to Faramir, helping him to sit up a bit in the seat, and on an afterthought took off his jacket and covered the bloody mess of his lover's chest, just in case someone might happen to look in when they were stopped at a traffic light. Faramir was still breathing shallowly, and looked horribly gray and pale, but he gave Michael a grateful smile before resting his head on the window and closing his eyes. Michael took his hand – warm, now. _Oh, thank you thank you thank you_ , he prayed, _his hand is warm_ – and sat close beside him, pressing his hip against Faramir's, mind a whirl. He looked up at the cabbie, who was regarding him through the rear view mirror.

            "There was no need to put a gun to my head, you know," said the cabbie, grinning back at Michael. "All you had to do was to tell me who you were and what you were up to. I'd have driven you anywhere you wanted. But I didn't know you were the Dreamer."

            Michael blinked. He could feel his cheeks drain of blood. He stared into the cabbie's reflected eyes, which were twinkling good-naturedly at him. Beside him, Faramir gave a breathy chuckle.

            "You – pulled a gun – on Pippin?" he wheezed, giving Michael's hand a quick, convulsive clutch.  "Goodness, darling – " he started to cough, and to laugh all at once, grabbing at his chest and groaning. "Oh god – that hurts – "

            "You mean, HE'S one of US?" demanded Michael indignantly, pointing at the now-chuckling cabbie. What had Faramir called him, Pippin? Oh wonderful, another weird name … He felt very foolish. Tulkas had guided him to that particular taxi. Didn't it sort of make sense that Tulkas would have known which taxi driver was the Right One? But Pippin's rude responses had made him angry. He couldn't have known – well, all right. Maybe he DIDN'T need to pull a gun to get his way, but – Faramir's laughter had degenerated into a coughing fit, and Pippin was still chuckling.

            Michael folded his arms over his chest, offended. He had done his BEST. It wasn't HIS fault this Pippin person wouldn't do what he was told. There was no need to LAUGH at him!

            "I'm sorry, Dreamer," said Pippin, looking back at him again in the rear view mirror. "I just haven't been menaced by someone with a gun in a long time. It took a little getting used to."

            "Couldn't have happened – to a better fellow," said Faramir weakly, still smiling. Pippin's answering snort confirmed Michael's suspicion that the two of them were on good terms. He thought about someone like, say, Doris accidentally pulling a gun on, say, Legolas, and realized it WAS kind of funny. After all, if this Pippin person were like the rest of them, what good would a gun have done? Well, hurt a lot, he supposed – Legolas had told them his head had hurt like hell after he'd been shot in the Metal Building, and Faramir was obviously not regarding his chest wounds as a walk in the park. Reluctantly, he decided being Offended wasn't going to get him anywhere, and he gave a half-hearted smile.

            "Well, okay, I'm sorry," he said, still sounding grumpy. "But you didn't have to be so RUDE."

            "I'm a London cabbie. I'm supposed to be rude," said Pippin apologetically. He put on his turn signal and got on the highway, but Michael suddenly noticed he was not taking the highway back to London, at least not the way they'd come.

            "Where are we going?" he asked curiously.

            "Oxford," smiled Pippin. "To see a certain don named Professor White."


	41. Scotch and Sensibility

  1. **Scotch and Sensibility**



 

 

            Aragorn looked very strange to Michael, black-clad, gun dangling from his belt, hair mussed and face streaked with dirt and dried sweat, carefully examining Gimli's broad hairy chest with deft professional fingers. It was the juxtaposition, Michael decided – Death and Life – Violence and Mercy – why did they always seem to walk hand-in-hand with this weird group? He supposed it had something to do with their closeness to the Valar. Pity and Justice seemed to permeate everything those demigods did. It would be impossible to spend so much time around them, and not soak at least a little of it up. So all things considered, perhaps Aragorn DIDN'T look so odd. Or maybe it was just the scotch.

            He yawned widely, horribly, hiding it behind a dirty and blood-crusted hand. He was so, so tired …. No sleep at all the night before. Adrenaline-rush and piercing grief, followed up by a long car trip and a warm room. Was it any wonder he was tired? And Gandalf, pushing scotch on him – that hadn't helped, either. That had been, in fact, the first thing Gandalf had said when he and Pippin had helped the groaning Faramir through the gate at Trinity in the early morning sunlight. Scrutinized by the porter, who watched them narrowly, Gandalf had limped out on his crutches, his foot swathed in white plaster and strappings, dark eyes anxious.

            "Scotch," he'd said, definitively and authoritatively. "Scotch is called for, I think." Then those bright black eyes flicking irritably to the porter, who stood frozen in indecision. "Don't stand there like a blithering idiot, man," Gandalf had said, whacking him in the knee with a crutch and making the porter yelp with pain and surprise. "Shut the damn gate and get back to your post."

            "Yes, Professor White," the porter had grunted, and Michael and Pippin continued up the walk with their patient limping painfully along between them. Fortunately for Faramir, Gandalf's movements were just as impeded by his foot and crutches, and he swore to himself as he jerked himself along.

            "Completely buggered up – idiots – can't for the life of me – absolutely no sense of decorum – however."

            They were all panting for breath after they crossed the cool grassy quadrangle, very aware of the surprised stares from passing gowned students, and when Gandalf opened his office door, a thick oak door set in heavy stone walls, they hustled into the warm private darkness of his quarters with relief.

            Gandalf told Pippin – calling him "You miserable Took," much to Faramir and Pippin's amusement – what a fool he'd been, how lucky he was Michael was around to fix up his messes, to put Faramir down on the couch, GENTLY DAMN YOU! when Faramir grunted with pain, and then out came the scotch. Pippin had looked hopeful, but Gandalf had given him nothing but a dark look. The glass he'd held out had been to Michael. Michael had stared at it, wondering why he should make liquor the Breakfast of Champions.

            "Take it," Gandalf had insisted, thrusting the glass at him. "Trust me, dear fellow, not only do you deserve it, you desperately need it."

            Remembering the Painkillers, Michael had complied, drinking down the hot harshness as quickly as possible and thinking that Gandalf was better at Self-Medicating than he'd thought. He'd turned to Faramir then, asked a question, something innocuous and random, and when he looked back down at his glass it was full again of the sparkling amber liquid.

            "There's a good fellow," Gandalf had said, smiling through his beard at him, like a grandfather giving him some warm milk. "Drink it up." So Michael had drunk the second glass as well, and sat beside Faramir to await everyone else.

            Gandalf's foot was broken – "Bloody inconvenience," he'd muttered discontentedly. "Damn those blasted Valar, interfering in this fashion" – and he sat in a shabby armchair by the fire, the plaster cast propped up on a footstool, a glass of scotch in one wrinkled, tobacco-stained hand. Michael tried a couple of times to get Gandalf to tell them how he'd broken his foot, but the look Gandalf gave them all was so full of disgusted irritability that he gave up. So he and Pippin exchanged Significant Glances and desultory comments, tried to make Faramir comfortable, and waited.

            They didn't have long to wait. Soon afterwards they could hear the porter's indignant expostulations – "No wimmin allowed 'ere – an' not dressed so improper neither – " but despite his efforts Arwen, Éowyn, and Lottie burst in, legs and breasts and high heels and bustiers and mascara odd contrasts with the bookshelves and mellow wood and firelight of Professor White's quarters. They obviously needed no explanations, because the first thing they did was swarm all over Michael and congratulate him, their lilting, lyrical voices chattering and ringing over the sounds of the porter indignantly slamming the door behind them.

            Michael was kissed and hugged and squeezed and praised until his head spun – or perhaps that was the scotch. It was very difficult to tell, and Gandalf had given him a third one – or was it his fourth? – and Éowyn in particular seemed very pleased with the work he'd done. She spoke at length about his Inner Strength and Desperate Courage and Firmness of Conviction until Michael blushed and wished she didn't think QUITE so highly of him. But when he glanced at Faramir and saw the pride in his face, he didn't feel nearly so bad. Then again, he reminded himself, it might just be the scotch after all.

            "Aragorn'll be pissed," Arwen had said, flipping her shining black hair behind one bare shoulder. She was standing at the fire, rubbing her hands, which were blue with cold. Those outfits they were wearing were stunning, Michael thought, but they certainly didn't cover much. Then again, hadn't that been the point – to so kerflummox the remaining operatives with their feminine charms that assassination would be effortless? Juxtaposition again, Michael mused, sipping at his hot amber drink.

            "Let him be pissed," Éowyn had shrugged, giving her ex-husband a sly wink. "Take him down a few notches – serves him right."

            Faramir had tried to laugh, but then began to cough again, deep tearing coughs, spitting dark thick blood, and then all their focus was on him, and Michael could breathe again, relieved to no longer be the center of attention. It was much more Comfortable taking care of Faramir, anyway.

            Not a half hour later, Aragorn and Éomer had entered, supporting Gimli between them. He was soaked, disheveled, and also wheezing and spitting blood and foam, but, thought Michael, at least the river water had washed all the blood off. He thought that was good – good, that is, until Michael actually smelled him. Gandalf saw Michael wrinkle his nose in distaste and laughed.

            "The Thames isn't known for its pristine clarity," he'd said, refilling Michael's glass. Hoping the scotch would numb his sense of smell, Michael had taken a huge gulp of it, and it burned all the way down.

            Éomer was just as vocal in his praise of Michael's deeds as his sister had been, and Aragorn regarded him with a combination of peevish discontent and thinly disguised admiration. "Great job!" Éomer had boomed, clapping Michael hard on the shoulder. "What a great shot! Wow! Did you see that, Longshanks? Perfect!" To Michael's (and his shoulder's) relief, Lottie intervened, launching herself at her husband to give a précis of the three remaining operatives' fate.

            By that time, the scotch had dissolved the part of Michael's brain that seemed to govern his reactions … he listened indifferently to the trio's tale of enticement, baiting traps and slitting throats, feeling only a vague sense of relief that at least THOSE operatives had been dealt with properly. He sat beside Faramir, holding his scotch glass in his dirty fingers, humming contentedly to himself in the warm crowded room, watching Aragorn do his Dr. Walker Thing and poke and prod the Wounded Ones.

            "Probably take you two to three weeks to heal properly," Aragorn said, coolly professional, examining the bullet wounds and listening to Gimli cough and choke up phlegm and blood. "Better take a bath, though. And Faramir, you need clean clothes too." He glanced over at Pippin, who rolled his eyes, jammed his cap back on, and turned to the door.

            "Right you are, Strider," he said, digging his car keys out of his pocket. "Shall I bring Legs and Gimli's girlfriend back with me?"

            "Thank you, yes, that would be splendid, Peregrin," Gandalf said, polite but firm. Pippin winked at Michael and slammed the heavy door behind him.

            All around Michael people were talking, high excited voices, triumphant, celebratory, laughing. There was Éomer, big burly hairy Éomer, with Lottie in pink sequins tucked in the brawny circle of one arm. There was Arwen, flawless, laughing at something Gandalf had said, sitting on the arm of his chair and swinging her legs in their high heels over the smooth wood floor. There were Aragorn and his patients, blood-splattered, speaking quietly together, but wrapped in their own exultant merriment, subdued but happy. And there was Éowyn, standing a little apart, chin raised, silver eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mouth was curved into an absent smile, and through the noise and the heat and the scotch, Michael thought he could hear a woman's voice echoing through Éowyn's head: _Well done, Shieldmaiden._ Then she laughed, a brassy shout, and ran her long slender fingers through the mass of golden curls around her face.

            It might have been minutes – or even an hour – Michael couldn't tell; he was on his, was it fifth or sixth glass of scotch? Well, it didn't matter – when the door banged open, and Doris stumbled, sobbing and hysterical, into the room. Éowyn caught her, gave her a quick hug, and then propelled her toward Gimli. Michael wasn't exactly sure, but he thought perhaps Éowyn had slowed her down a little so that she wouldn't hurt Gimli by launching herself at him like that. It would be something Éowyn would think to do, after all.

            And then, behind Doris, shining, beaming, flinging long lean arms wide, laughing and shaking his lustrous pale hair back, cerulean eyes sparkling with merriment, came Legolas – whipcord-strong, big boots stomping, big voice calling out loudly to everyone in the room, looking around – LOOKING. It took Michael a second to realize why that puzzled him, and behind his scotchy haze he felt a lazy flicker of satisfaction – and congratulating everyone there on a Job Well Done. He curled one arm round his wife's slim waist and kissed her soundly, crowed happily to Gimli who was hoarsely congratulating him on regaining his eyesight, commiserated with Gandalf over the heads of everyone else about being "taken out of the picture," and then turned the full force of his gaze and personality upon Michael.

            That flawless pale face, framed with pale curtains of glossy hair, those delicious pink lips spread into a grin so wide his _dimples_ had dimples – Michael looked at him in mild surprise, puzzled by his lack of reaction. This was LEGOLAS after all – Legolas, for whom Michael had carried a not-so-secret torch all these months. Legolas, whose presence made Michael's skin tingle, whose smile made his heart flip, whose bronzed torso had so delighted him in the BVI. He glanced at Faramir, who was smiling absently at him, and THAT was when he felt it – a heavy, limb-weakening _ker-flump_ somewhere above the solar plexus. Beneath his liquor-induced haze, Michael felt a vague feeling of loss, though it was tempered by a keen sense of Faramir's comforting presence.

            Legolas' eyes widened a little, and the dazzling grin that split his face intensified. A brilliant bluish light kindled in his lovely eyes and he gave a sudden laugh. He abruptly brushed the delighted and surprised reactions of his compatriots aside and leapt at Michael. Poor Michael, fuzzed with scotch and fatigue and a trifle overheated, simply sat in stunned amazement as Legolas planted a powerful knee on either side of Michael's lap, took Michael's clammy face between his long thin hands, grinned impudently down at him, aquamarine eyes bright and focused and terribly knowing, then planted a long, passionate, sloppy kiss right on Michael's lips.

            Beneath Faramir's weak protestations, and the whistles and wolf-calls from everyone else, Michael's only thought was that it was a pity that he had received his One and Only Kiss from Legolas, and had been so liquored-up he hadn't felt a damn thing.

 

***********************************

 

            Another train, but this time, no slow, dirty cattle-cars at night for them – Legolas and Éowyn drove Michael and Faramir to the Portsmouth ferry, handed the porters the tickets and luggage, and helped Michael aboard with Faramir's wheelchair.

            "Not to worry," Legolas said to Michael, who was feeling a trifle delicate after recovering from Gandalf's scotch the previous day. "Pick up the train at Dover, give the garçon yer tickets, and he'll direct you where you need to go. Faramir here speaks French well enough – you'll do fine."

            Then Éowyn kissed them both, Legolas grinned at them, and Michael watched the two of them walk back down the hallway, two long slender gold-capped people, their arms entwined, talking and laughing together. That rather signified to Michael that it was Really Over … the Last Man had died, and they were free to go. Legolas no longer had any use for them. He watched them vanish out the doorway with an odd feeling of mingled regret and relief.

            Faramir had smiled after them, then sighed and rested his head against the back of his seat. He was still horribly pale, and was eliciting many kind and solicitous looks and comments from the people around them. One French woman, thin and tan and wrinkled with dyed red hair, gave Faramir a pitying look with her large, dark, heavily-made-up eyes and said to her friend, " _Ah, vois-toi le pauvre gars? Regardes son visage. C'est trés pale … doit être très malade_." Michael wasn't sure what it had meant, but it sounded very nice, and he smiled hesitantly at her. She smiled back around her thin cigarette, and gave him a friendly look. Michael's hangover receded slightly after that.

            Dover, then Calais, then the TGV to Lyon where they stayed the night in a quaint bed-and-breakfast, negotiating the narrow staircase with difficulty. Their hosts were delightfully helpful, however, and very solicitous, stowing Faramir's wheelchair under the stairs, carrying up their suitcases, and making little sympathetic tutting noises.

            Faramir had a terrible night, coughing and spitting up mucous and small chunks of his lungs. At one point, during a particularly nasty jag, he gagged and spit out a bit of bullet – twisted and flared – that cut his throat and tongue on its way up. Michael mopped up the blood as best he could, reflecting to himself as Faramir convulsed and groaned that the past six months had changed him in ways he'd never thought possible … could he really be the same man who had fainted when one of his co-workers got a nose bleed? Impossible … and then Michael heard Tulkas chuckling in his head again. Overlaid with that was a vaguely familiar male voice whispering, " _Ah, our Dreamer has indeed grown. He is become strong … "_ A chill went through him as he realized it was the voice of Ossë.

            But later, when he did manage to sleep a little in the early hours of the morning, while Faramir dozed fitfully, pale and hollow-eyed, Michael did not see or hear Ossë in his dreams at all, and wondered if he had only imagined it was he.

            The next morning, though it dawned luminous and yellow-pink with the lightest cool breaths of wind stirring the white lace curtains of their room, found Faramir far too weak to travel. It was as though all the bright promise of the new day had been for nothing. The late night and horrible racking coughs had taken their toll on him, and he shivered with exhaustion, his skin pasty gray and his eyes sunken. Michael tamped down the sudden surge of panic by remembering that Faramir COULDN’T die, that he WOULD recover, and padded in his bare feet down the chilly dark hall in search of their hosts.

            He found them in the back kitchen, brewing coffee and whipping eggs for omelets. Sadly Michael's education had not included any French (his father had insisted he take his obligatory two years of Spanish, though all he could remember was " _Su madre usa botas de combates_ ," which didn't help much in any situation), and it was with great difficulty he managed to convey to them that " _mon ami_ " (he remembered that from a TV ad) was not well, and with concerned expressions the husband and wife followed him up to their room.

            After a rasping whispered consultation with their anxious hosts, Faramir, amidst hoarse throaty coughs, told Michael he had arranged to stay an extra day, and that he and Michael would take a later train to Nice. The landlords, he said, would warn the Hôtel Negresco and their rooms would be reserved for at least a week in their names. So Michael sat by Faramir's side while he dozed, holding the strong brown hand, so limp and weak in his own little white fingers. While he watched the sun move slowly round their cozy little room, touching here and there a vase, or a chair, or an embroidered pillow, he caught himself wondering how they had come to this – how his Alpha had been laid so low, and he so strangely exalted. This time, however, Tulkas did not respond.

            One o'clock came and went, and Michael's stomach began to growl. He was somewhat relieved when Faramir awoke, feeling recovered enough to assert a little authority. He insisted Michael leave to find sustenance, and obediently Michael left, wandering down Lyon's twisting narrow streets at lunchtime in search of a promising café.

            He chose one, based on the fact that he overheard one of the waiters speaking in broken but adequate English to a couple of other tourists, and after he was seated picked up the long plastic-coated menu with an apprehensive sigh. After puzzling for a moment over what the difference was between "Menu 80ff" and "Menu 110ff" he decided to try the "loup," which was apparently a kind of fish, and a "demi-bouteille" of dry white wine. The bottle of water they brought at his request startled him – how could he have known that the question " _Gaz ou sans gaz_?" referred to whether or not the water were carbonated? – but the salad was good, the fish excellent, the pasta inspired, and the dessert very light. He decided against a digestif, thinking with anxious unease of Faramir alone so long – WHY did it take three hours to lunch in France? – and after paying the bill and, he was certain, naively over-tipping the unctuous waiter, he hurried back to his room.

            The landlady said something to him as he came in, which he missed entirely. However, since she was smiling, he figured it couldn't be too bad, so he just said, " _Merci beaucoup_ " – he was positive he saw her wince at his accent – and vaulted the stairs two at a time. He paused at the door, not wanting to burst in noisily and disturb Faramir were he sleeping. As he stood hesitantly with his hand on the knob he was surprised to hear a woman's voice. Frowning a little, and wondering if that was what the landlady had attempted to tell him when he saw her, he softly opened the door and stepped inside.

            The little room was dim in the afternoon shadows, save for a small glass lamp on the side table by the bed that let off warm yellow light. Faramir was sitting up a little on his pillows, his blue nightshirt creased and his eyes drooping and tired, but he was smiling at his guest. She was a stoutish, short dark-haired woman, with snapping black eyes and a handsome face, dressed in a trim blue suit. She sat on the edge of their bed, and she was laughing. She turned and looked at Michael over her shoulder when he came in, and her already cheerful face broke into a delighted grin.

            " _Ah, enfin_!" she exclaimed, rising and approaching Michael with arms outstretched. He tensed, unsure of what to expect, and was vaguely surprised when she grasped him firmly by the shoulders with strong small hands and kissed him soundly on each cheek. "The Dreamer, yes, of course! Ah, Faramir," she added, turning and wagging a teasing finger at Michael's lover, her face sly. " _Tu n'm'pas a dit q'il etait si beau!_ "

            Faramir smiled weakly, but managed to give Michael a sly wink. "Call me a sucker for a pretty face," he said. His voice was still a little hoarse, but not nearly so raspy as it had been. Michael flushed. He was at once pleased and embarrassed, and a little relieved that Faramir seemed to have recovered enough to attain a passing semblance to his former state of ardor. He gave the woman a hesitant smile, and she beamed up at him, showing all her strong white teeth.

            "I am Diamante," she said. "Diamond, you know."

            "Pippin's wife," interjected Faramir, and stifled a small cough.

            "Oh!" said Michael, a little surprised. He hadn't expected Pippin the Cabbie to be married, much less to this sophisticated Frenchwoman. He wondered if she were one of the Chosen, too. It was so hard to tell with what Gandalf had called "the Hobbits." Frodo had been a "Hobbit" too, and although he was a tad short, he'd LOOKED fairly normal. He supposed he was just going to have to label her Possibly Not Human and leave it at that.

            "I have come," she said expansively, beaming down at Faramir, "to see to our poor _capitaine_ \-- and to give him of course the best _chocolat_ from the best _chocolatier_ in Lyon." She gestured to a large bronze box, topped with an amazing mass of ribbons and silk flowers, resting precariously on the bedside table. "It is very good, our _chocolat_ ," she said with an expression of superior complacency. "You eat it careful, yes? Not _comme çi comme ça_ , it is too good for that. You eat it as a Frenchman eats, not like the Americans, _mon dieu_! You see Gimli, _le petit_ _cochon_ , who gobbles it right up. No," she said, lifting her pointed little chin and looking down her nose at Michael. "You are not like that, you have _des gôutes Française_ , I am sure of it."

            "Um," said Michael, not sure how to respond to this. He gave Faramir a puzzled look, and Faramir chuckled weakly.

            "Don't worry, Diamond," he said, his voice still raspy and low. He gave Michael a soft look from beneath his dark lashes, and Michael's heart turned over. "Michael has excellent taste."

            " _C'est evident_ ," snorted Diamond, picking up a small handbag and bending over to give Faramir two brusque kisses. " _Bisou-bisou_ , Faramir, we visit you in Monte Carlo, yes? _Áu vert feutrine?_ " She straightened and smoothed out her trim dark suit.

            "I haven't played the tables in years," protested Faramir with a weak laugh. Diamond snorted and turned away.

            " _L'amour, c'est t'a fait faible_ ," she said indignantly. "I tell you, at the green felt, Peregrin and I. _Bon soir_ , Little Dreamer," she added to Michael, patting him firmly on the cheek and smiling up at him. " _Au revoir_."

            “Um … bye," said Michael, feeling as though he had gone into the wrong classroom, and wishing he'd studied French instead of Spanish in high school.

            When the door closed behind him he turned and, putting his hands on his hips, regarded his lover, who returned his look with artful innocence. Michael stifled a grin, and decided Faramir was just recovered enough to withstand a little teasing.

            "Just wanted to get me out of the way, didn't you?" asked Michael archly, fluttering his lashes. "Thought you'd have your wicked way with DIAMANTE, didn't you?" He rolled his eyes and swiveled his hips, and Faramir laughed so hard it triggered another coughing fit.

            Horrified with himself and full of remorse, Michael spent the next half hour rubbing Faramir's back and apologizing. Far from being offended, however, Faramir thought it very funny, sniggering now and again to himself, and seemed in such good humor by the time their landlady came up with soup and sandwiches that she spoke enthusiastically and extensively to him, congratulating him on his imminent recovery. And even after he had settled down for the night, nestled comfortably in piles of pillows with Michael stretched out beside him stroking his forehead, he chuckled now and again and muttered sleepily to himself: "Diamante … " At last with a final shake of his head, he drifted off.

            Michael slept then, full of warm food and hopeful sentiment, drifting from place to place in his mental theater with the random airiness of a butterfly. Here and there he saw a familiar face – Doris, beaming, watching Gimli in a yamaka. Gandalf delivering a lecture to a room full of serious-faced young people. Frodo, trading in Faramir's Lexus on a Land Rover. And the landscapes rolled by, too – the docks in Miami. The heaving glossy ocean at night, throwing back the light of the stars and the running lights on the boat. The pungent pine forest in the hills of Arizona. Now and again he saw a flash of light, like and explosion or the flare of gunfire. Now and again darkness descended, warm and quiet and restful. He fluttered and dipped, touching each memory briefly, unconcerned, exhausted and wanting only to rest.

            And then he shifted, looked over his shoulder, and in the pale blue light saw Oropher and Gil-Galad seated at a ghostly table, laughing and raising shimmering goblets in salute. "To the Dreamer!" cried Oropher, and Gil-Galad touched the rim of his goblet to Oropher's. "The Dreamer!" he agreed, and they both drank deeply. Smiling, Michael turned away from them and began to run. He looked over his shoulder again and saw Faramir running behind him, smiling, healthy and full of life. Michael laughed and yelled, "Run with me, Faramir!" Then, arms pumping and legs churning, he ran and ran and ran – heedless of Faramir's cries to stop, to let him catch up. Michael ran until the darkness faded and the light completely surrounded him. He ran alone, but for some reason he did not even care.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	42. Anagenesis

  1. **Anagenesis**



 

 

            Michael and Faramir sailed around the world, as Michael had hoped they would. Now and again on the _White Lady;_ sometimes on a cruise liner, on occasion working their passage for the fun of it on a freighter. Round the capricious Mediterranean on a boat from Bonifacio they toured Greece and Italy. Skimming the coast of France and Spain, they passed into the Atlantic and hugged the African coastline past the Equator. Around the Horn and up into the Mozambique Channel, then on to the hook of Somalia and to Sri Lanka by steamer. They wound their way round the Sunda Islands and beat their way about Australia and New Zealand, hopping from cluster to cluster of islands through the Pacific until they reached Ecuador, sweltering in the heat of high summer. There they debated sailing south and covering the coast of the lower America, but Michael had begun to get homesick, and at last they both decided to ease their way northward back to California.

            They had, of course, kept in contact with both Michael's family and the rest of the Chosen during that time. They had run into the _White Lady_ not only in the Mediterranean but the Pacific as well, though Legolas announced they would be heading north past Asia to take the Arctic passage to the New World. The emails and text messages they got from them reported Nha Trang had been "subdued" by the four of them and no further traces of Ahn could be found.

            When Michael and Faramir made landfall in Acapulco, there was a packet of discs waiting for them at their hotel. As Faramir examined them on his laptop, they discovered pictures – Hong Kong, Taiwan, the Philippines, Borneo, Korea and Japan from the Sea of Japan, Russia from the Sea of Okhostk. A note from Éowyn said they would be returning to their ranch in Montana, and that they were invited to Gimli and Doris' wedding, but they'd have to be in New York before Hanukkah. Michael had, of course, been given the full summary of Gimli's acceptance into the Jewish faith and consequently her family. Doris told him the fact that her fiancé owned half of one of Microsoft's subsidiaries had softened her mother up considerably.

            By the time they got back to L.A. in early autumn, Michael was fit, tan, confident, and felt about ten thousand times removed from his Original Self. Where had the Old Michael gone? Where was the pale, pretty-boy swisher who thought only of his clothes and his hair and his next manicure? When had he evolved into this sweetly sarcastic sailor with grimy, calloused hands and a reputation for a cutthroat knack for darts and snooker? How had he managed to change so drastically? He was a Different Person now … he wasn't really Michael Morris anymore. But when he commented on this to Faramir as they walked with their rollicking sea-legs up the docks, Faramir laughed and disagreed, his strong brown hands running through his overlong black hair.

            "You're more your original self than you think you are," he said, his gray eyes sparkling. "You're more Michael now than you were when we met."

            And again Michael seemed to hear what both Tulkas and Legolas had told him – had it really been only six months before, that night he'd killed Ahn? -- _You are stronger than you think you are_. The strength, the courage, the ability had always been there … it had just taken a good bit of digging through his squashed psyche to find it.

            They settled in San Diego, took possession of Faramir's condo and Lexus (at Michael's insistence, Faramir really did trade it in on a Land Rover), and tried as hard as they could to Blend Back In. It was not easy – all of their old friends, from their old life, all their old coworkers and acquaintances, greeted them with astonishment and disbelief. No one seemed to know what to do with them now. Francis Steward, smiling, friendly, and volunteering at the local community college, teaching computer networking. Michael, involved in the San Diego chapter of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and taking second place at the local NRA Marksmanship Trials. Michael found to his dismay that all his cronies from college and high school and work and nightclubs had diminished in his eyes, petty, small-minded, shallow. They had become inconsequential – or rather, he reflected, he might have outgrown them, which was worse.

            Faramir didn't even bother taking his old job back – "Too risky," he'd said with a grimace, shaking his head – and instead contracted out as a Systems Security Expert. That, at least, was an irony Michael could live with. As for Michael's Modus Operandi, Faramir purchased him his own design studio, hiring a competent (and ruthlessly aggressive) business manager to run things. Michael knew Faramir was only doing this to let Michael amuse himself and keep him out of trouble, but still, it WAS a lot of fun, telling people what to do with their Horrible Homes, and giving Faramir a welcome tax-break.

            There were other Adventures, of course, with the rest of the Chosen, some with the entire crew, some with just a hand-picked few. But Michael knew, when Legolas would breeze into their condo, rolling a lollipop around in his sweet sticky mouth and both titillating and offending every friend, acquaintance, and coworker within a hundred-yard radius with his foul language and big dirty boots, that their quiet comfortable lives had to take a brief hiatus, and the desperate noisy conundrum would continue. It was a constant undercurrent, this battle against darkness. At one point, he had asked Legolas why an Alien would be so concerned – why an Alien would pit his strength and energy and abilities against the Forces of Evil. Legolas had laughed then, taking the lollipop out of his mouth and giving Michael a curious look.

            " 'Forces of Evil,' mate?" he'd asked, cerulean eyes sparkling. "Aren't any fuckin' forces – just people. That's bloody evil enough, innit?"

            Michael wasn't sure he liked that answer. But then again, after all that time, he reflected that if anyone would know about the Total Depravity of Mankind, Legolas would, wouldn't he?

            His family accepted Faramir – or Francis, as he asked to be called – as a Temporary Embarrassment. It was very Inconvenient of Faramir to hang on as long as he did. It brought up Questions his parents weren't particularly keen to answer. Pauline didn't mind – she liked Faramir, satisfied at last with one of Michael's choices – and despite her husband's reservations would allow Joshua and Tara to visit "Uncle Mike and Uncle Francis." Michael's niece and nephew thought this great fun, because Uncle Mike and Uncle Francis would take them hiking and camping around Palomar and the Pacific Crest, or boating in their little sloop _Two Ticks No Dog_ from Chula Vista, or better yet let them tag along when they went to visit their friends on their big belching motorcycles, because then – Uncle Mike wouldn't tell – maybe Longshanks or Grim would take them for a ride. And of course there were the obligatory summer visits to White Rock, where Tara fell in love with Mr. Greenleaf and Joshua wrote reams of poetry to "The White Lady." The only good thing Pauline's husband would say about it was at least he could be assured both HIS children had their sexuality properly figured out.

            Aunt Edna proved to be no trouble at all, after a surprise visit from "Michael's awful friend Legs," who had blown in, half-drunk, with a cigarette gummed to his lower lip, tromping all over Michael's mother's house in his dusty cracked leather pants, swearing and laughing and making a general nuisance of himself. Michael knew Legolas had done that on purpose – showing up unannounced just when Aunt Edna had come to visit – and he was grateful not only that Legolas had not minded playing the fool just for him, but also for Aunt Edna's loud assertions after he left that "at least that Francis boy is a gentleman."

            All in all, Michael and Faramir were quite happy. They had the approval of Michael's family, they had a comfortable place to live, they had their boat and their cars and their enjoyable jobs, they had the rest of the Chosen, and of course they had each other.

            The years rolled by, picking up speed with each turn of the seasons. Before Michael knew it, he had turned thirty-five, and upon examining his face in the bathroom mirror was chagrined to discover he had four gray hairs. Granted, they didn't show up that much in his blond curls, and at least he wasn't going BALD – Pauline's husband had started to lose his hair in his twenties and still kept up that awful comb-over – and what were those – were those WRINKLES? He grimaced and shook his head. That's what happened, he supposed, after spending so much time on the deck of a boat – Sun Damage. He called up a friend of his that sold Mary Kay and made an appointment.

            Two years later, Faramir took that horrible call from Legolas, telling them Doris was dead. Such a stupid, senseless, preventable thing, too – crossing the street in Albuquerque, struck by someone running a red light. Heart wrung with grief and pity and a bewildered emptiness, Michael and Faramir fled to New York, where Doris' body, stouter and grayer than she had been when they'd met, was interred in the family plot.

            Michael couldn't believe it – not Doris – not _his_ Doris. Not funny, practical, deprecating, delightful, brave Doris. What would he do without her, without her dropping in on them, holding Gimli's hand and laughing? Without her calling him in the middle of the night to tell him she was in Rio and drunk as a lord? Without her cuddling up between him and Lottie on the couch in White Rock to watch a Chick Flick? Who would he drink margaritas with? Who would he go antiquing with? Who could he call when he needed a dose of someone Normal? It was Unfair – Unfair of the Valar to take her so soon. Michael suddenly hated the lot of them, and when a Dream came to him the night before the funeral, he angrily pinched himself awake and tried not to listen.

            Gimli was neither at the wake nor the funeral. When Michael tearfully asked Legolas, who stood pale and subdued by Gandalf's side, where Doris' husband was and why he had not attended, Legolas had turned his unnatural blue eyes upon him soberly.

            "Couldn't take it," he said. His voice was clipped, emotionless. Michael couldn't tell whether Legolas approved of Gimli's reaction or not. "Buggered off. Doin' a dig in Tunisia."

            Michael stood with Éowyn when the coffin was lowered into the ground. Her face was grim and white, and her silvery eyes rimmed with red. He could barely see for his own tears. Everything was mottled and washed over. The first clunk of dirt on the top of the coffin broke his heart, and burying his face in Faramir's dark-suited shoulder he cried like a baby.

            He begged Gimli's address from Legolas, who gave it to him without comment, and when he and Faramir returned home, Michael wrote Gimli a long, sympathetic letter telling him how sorry he was, that he understood why Gimli couldn't be there, that Gimli was welcome to visit any time, that he would miss Doris too because he had loved her. Gimli's only response was a postcard from Zaghouan with a picture of the camel on the front, and a few scrawled words on the back: "Thanks. But no good. Staying here. Grim."

            Michael never saw him again.

            Michael grew older. Soon his four gray hairs increased to six, then twelve, then Michael could no longer count them. Mary Kay did wonders for his complexion, but the damage had been done, and nothing – not the most expensive unguents – could prevent the signs of aging. To make it worse, Faramir did not change one iota.

            Michael knew by now that Faramir was Old, Older than even his grandfather would have counted Old, and that he would not – could not – age. His cool gray eyes were clear and unwrinkled, and his hair as dark as a raven's wing. His hands were supple and pliant and his body as perfect as it had always been. Michael excused his lover's immutability to Good Genes when his family commented on it – "Why, he doesn't look a day over thirty!" – and anxiously wondered what they would do when the differences in their apparent age became inexplicable. Faramir had kissed him and smiled a little sadly.

            "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, darling," he'd said, and held Michael tight.

            They never had to cross that particular bridge. When the stomach pains Michael suffered one night after a particularly heavy dinner of mussels in curry-cream sauce did not abate by morning, he went in to his doctor to determine the cause, thinking perhaps it was his appendix. But the doctor called him later that afternoon with the scan and blood results, and with a cold lurch in his stomach Michael found out that he had late stage pancreatic cancer, and the doctor had scheduled an emergency biopsy.

            Faramir was not so much shocked as infuriated. Specialists were called in. Hospitals and doctors' offices and laboratories rung up and pestered for results. Within twenty-four hours, the Walkers were at the front door with suitcases and medical bags in hand. Aragorn took over the entire process, seeming to find it personally insulting that cancer of ANY kind should find its way into Michael's body. He bullied the oncologists and surgeons and anesthesiologists and charge nurses. He studied charts and drew blood and pored over X-rays and CT scans and ultrasounds and ERCPs and discussed surgery and radiation and chemotherapy. When further tests showed the cancer had metastasized into the liver, Aragorn actually went pale, and at that point Michael realized he was frightened.

            That night, as Faramir slept beside him, Michael Dreamt. Legolas was standing by his bedside, white-robed, bejeweled. His head was bowed, and he was weeping – large glistening tears rolling down the alabaster cheeks, columbine mouth turned dolorously down, long white hands fisted and trembling. Michael reached up and touched his beaded sleeve.

            "Am I going to die?" he asked. He did not feel like he could ask that question of Aragorn or Arwen, or even of the other doctors. But he knew he could ask Legolas, and Legolas would be honest.

            Legolas looked at him then, his eyes glowing behind their sheen of tears. On his unblemished face was a look of grief and regret. "I am very sorry, Beloved Dreamer," he said, and his clear warm voice broke. "It was for this Ossë would have taken you to sleep beneath his depths. I have done you great injury."

            "It's not your fault," Michael said, though his mind was spinning at the thought. It explained a great deal actually – it explained why he had never actually feared either Ossë or his kingdom. It explained Ossë's apology when Legolas had succeeded in bringing him to the surface. But then he remembered the Light, and the power of the One who had pulled them both out of the grip of the ocean's weight. "You're not the only one who rescued me. It worked out the way it was supposed to." But Legolas didn't seem to be listening. He had sunk to his knees by Michael's bedside and rested his head on his arms, weeping bitterly.

            The surgery did not go well, according to all the doctors, and Aragorn looked graver than ever. All the Chosen, though, to Michael's gratification, had outdone themselves, showering him with love, and with gifts and words of encouragement. Michael had been especially delighted when Lottie candy-striped herself into his post-op room with a Tupperware container of margaritas hidden in her cart. Éomer smuggled in a box of cold Buffalo wings ("The charge nurse wouldn't let me by," he'd complained. "They were hot when I brought them in!"), Arwen brought his CD player, and Frodo a copy of Designing Today. Gandalf sent an enormous potted aspidistra and Pippin and Diamond several boxes of fine chocolate, with which Michael bribed the nurses. The White Rock contingent sent the best gift of all – themselves, at his disposal, running errands, taking care of his Home Design business, cleaning his apartment, cooking his meals. But despite the joy attendant with the presence of his friends, Michael could not deny he was frightened, for Aragorn grimly confirmed what the surgeons had said: The cancer was spreading.

            Michael didn't want to lose his hair – even if it was going gray – but the radiologist was adamant they at least try to slow the disease's progression, and Faramir, who had started to realize how grave Michael's situation was, eagerly assented. His pale eyes were haunted now, and when he looked at Michael there was in his beautiful face a terrible breaking, a fracturing of spirit that was awful to watch. He would try to smile, but behind the forced grimace, Michael knew he was struggling to keep his lips from trembling.

            He wasn't sure which was worse, radiation or chemotherapy. By the time two months had gone by, he had lost thirty pounds, the elasticity in his skin, and all of his hair, including his eyelashes.

            His family was supportive but completely taken aback. None of them seemed to know what to say or to do. The Chosen were both more tender and bluntly realistic. When Joshua would speak, stilted and uncomfortable, about football, Éomer would gently draw the conversation back to Michael's IV machine and explain its inner workings. When Tara brought in her new baby and it screamed, impeding conversation, Arwen wordlessly whisked the tot away so Michael could talk to his niece. And when Michael's father broke down, sobbing awkwardly and pulling away from his wife's ineffectual patting on his shoulder, Legolas walked silently in, put his arms around both mother and father and held them while they wept.

            Michael began to feel very tired. He could not eat. Food tasted odd, and even had he felt like eating odd-tasting food, he was queasy and uncomfortable. He could not seem to catch his breath or complete a sentence. He was suffused with lethargy and a nagging nausea, and when friends came to call he was incapable of whipping up enough enthusiasm to pretend to be happy to see them. He hated the nurses now. He was so tired of being poked and prodded, of having them dig around under his skin for veins that had not collapsed, of having to have his catheter reset, of all the mortifying and painful things associated with this illness and protracted hospital stays. He even hated the smell of the hospital, the chemical tinny scent of impending mortality. Faramir was everything he could have wanted – encouraging, gentle, supportive, informed, tireless – but nothing seemed to help, and Michael only felt worse as the days progressed.

            At last the oncologists put their collective feet down and told Faramir they were fighting a losing battle – the chemo wasn't helping Michael at all. The cancer was still growing, and Michael's health was deteriorating more rapidly under the treatment than would have been the case had they done nothing. Aragorn had a long talk with Faramir after that. Faramir yelled and waved his arms, but Aragorn was adamant. At last Faramir broke down, and Aragorn held him, and he wept too.

            Michael didn't care. Within a week of stopping treatment, he began to feel better. His hair started to grow back (although it was almost all white at this point) and he regained his appetite. Rosie surprised him at home with a hearty Beef Wellington, and he ate more than Faramir, so enchanted at his refound ability to taste food again that he took three helpings, much to Rosie's gratification.

            After four weeks had passed, he had regained fifteen pounds and most of his strength, and to celebrate, he and Faramir took one last sailing trip together, up the coast of California to San Francisco and back. It seemed to Michael that the world had decided to give him a rousing send-off – the sun shone on them nearly every day. Each wind they caught sent them where they wanted to go. The sea was pleasant, the food perfect. It was idyllic. Faramir appeared to have accepted his fate, quietly and without argument, and spent his days thinking of ways to bring Michael pleasure – visceral, visual, physical, gastronomic – they sat in their little mess speaking fondly of happy memories, of people they knew, of things they had done together. Each day wound them closer together, and it was both delightful and painful, because they rejoiced in their intimacy yet were braced for separation.

            Shortly thereafter, the stomach pain returned, redoubled, and Aragorn started giving Michael morphine. At first Pauline had objected – "You're going to get him addicted to that stuff!" – not an invalid concern, Michael noted. The blissful indifference, the waves of euphoria that washed over him and erased every discomfort became not simply a necessity but a yearning, and he could see how someone could very easily become addicted to it.

            But Aragorn's response to Pauline had chilled him. "Yes, he'll be addicted to it," he'd said, his face set and harsh. "But he won't be addicted long."

            Michael had looked over at him then from where he lay in his bed, the rush of ecstasy swelling in him and pushing out his concern. "How long?" he asked. His voice was slurred.

            Aragorn looked down at him, and Michael could see the tears in his eyes. "A month," he said, and choked a little. "Maybe … maybe less."

            Pauline turned away and started to cry, but Michael was too far gone in his haze to care.

            The days began to sift, to blend together, pieces of them moving like chess pawns from one square to another. He could no longer remember recent acquaintances' names, and soon they stopped coming to see him. His Dreams became incoherent, faces swelling and receding, voices at once blaring at him then fading to whispers. Sometimes he would think he heard Tulkas, at other times, Ossë. Once he was sure he heard Nienna telling him: "Not long now, O Dreamer."

            Whenever he was awake, Faramir was there, sometimes a bit blue about the chin, or with eyes sunk in dark baggy holes, but always there – washing him, cleaning his teeth, feeding him, stroking his hair. His voice was low and quiet and very soothing, and although most of the time Michael couldn't understand him, it was nice to simply lie back and listen to him speak.

            "Michael," said Legolas. He walked toward Michael, smiling. He was wearing his white robe and jeweled collar, and looked very beautiful. His hair was bright and luminous, and swung round his high cheekbones like liquid gold.

            "What is it?" asked Michael lazily. He was riding the crest of a morphine wave and didn't feel particularly concerned. Legolas seemed to sense his indifference, and laughed.

            "My grandfather sent me with a message for you," said Legolas. "He said to tell you to forsake the Edain and stay with him."

            "All right," said Michael. "I don't care."

            "What did you say, Michael?" asked Faramir. Michael blinked. The blue light was gone, and Faramir leaned over him in a darkened room.

            "I was talking to Legolas," said Michael. His voice sounded very far away, and his hands were like lead.

            Faramir smiled down at him. His eyes were haunted. "Legolas and Éowyn are back in Montana, remember?" he said gently, touching Michael's cheek.

            "I know," said Michael, and the world faded again.

            Things got very confusing after that. Michael made a passing attempt to figure out who was there and what they were saying, but he got so tired of trying to sort out the winding threads of conversation and faces that popped in and out of his vision, and eventually gave up. The only person he could focus on was Faramir. If he awoke and Faramir were not there, he became very agitated, and would whimper and shift around until he came back. On occasion he would recognize Aragorn, but as he had nothing of importance to say, he never responded when Aragorn would speak to him or ask him questions: "How do you feel? Do you know what day it is? Michael? Do you know who I am?" _Of course I do_ , Michael would think, and close his eyes, letting the yammering voice slide over him.

            He got so accustomed to this soporific state that when he awoke suddenly and unequivocally to the feeling of someone shaking him, it was a great shock. He looked up to see Legolas, grinning down at him, with a lollipop stuck out the side of his mouth. "Legolas!" he exclaimed. The lethargic haze melted away and he sat up.

            "Oi, Mike," said Legolas. He was in a very good humor, and his dimples were much in evidence. "Got someone I want you ter meet, mate."

            Michael looked around the room. It was empty, except for Faramir sleeping in a chair in the corner. It occurred to Michael how drained and exhausted his lover looked. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were sunken. He slept with his head propped up on one hand, and he was unshaven. He looked Awful. "I don't know if I should leave him like this," said Michael uncertainly. He felt it would be Unfair to simply walk out with no explanation.

            "He'll be all right," said Legolas confidently, holding out his hand. Michael hesitated, then took the Alien's hand. It felt warm and smooth beneath his fingers. He looked up at Legolas' lovely face, at the pink rosebud lips and brilliant eyes. Legolas smiled down at him. "Come on, then."

            They walked out of the room into the hallway. It was still dark, and Michael couldn't see where he was going. "Is it far?" he asked, letting Legolas pull him along.

            "Not much further," said Legolas with a smile.

            They walked for a ways in the darkness, and then Michael could see someone standing in front of him – someone large and dark, whose eyes glittered a little. He felt the pressing feeling on his soul and realized he was approaching a Vala. He did not recognize this Vala. He was Dark – very Dark – with a sort of brooding patience, a sense of waiting, of time, of the passage of eons. Beautiful – they were all beautiful – but this one was so, so dark. Michael hesitated. He would much rather have run into Tulkas, or even Ossë.

            "Legolas," he whispered. This Vala's regard on him was heavy, crushing his lungs. "Are you sure I'm supposed to meet him?"

            "Positive," said Legolas. He marched Michael up to the Vala and Michael stood, trembling, squeezing Legolas' hand so hard he was surprised Legolas didn't pull back. But he didn’t. He bowed, still holding Michael's hand, and said, "My Lord, the Dreamer."

            "Ah," said the Vala. Michael looked up into his face. It was tender, peaceful, compassionate. He suddenly felt, as he had with Thranduil, that this Vala loved and accepted him as a son unquestioning, unhesitating. His heart surged and he felt a peculiar longing to fall into this Vala's arms, to let him embrace and love him. "You have suffered much, Beloved Dreamer. Do you wish to end this affliction?"

            "Yes, my lord," said Michael, his voice shaking. "But … what about Faramir?"

            "The Steward shall regain his status as Dreamer and be succored by the Chosen," said the Vala. "Now. Come with me, Little One." He held out his hand, huge, dark, glowing luminescent green in the darkness, and Michael shrank back.

            "Who are you?" he whispered.

            "Námo," said the Vala gently. "It is time, Little One."

            Legolas let go Michael's hand, and slowly Michael put his hand in Námo's. He felt at once a rush deeper and more joyful than the morphine, for it not only uplifted but clarified. He could feel his pain fall off him like a dried husk. It was exhilarating, consoling, uplifting. He gazed up at Námo's smiling face with an expression of wonder.

            "Good-bye, Michael," said Legolas.

            Michael turned. Legolas was walking back down the dark hallway, suffused in his eerie Alien glow. Suddenly Michael realized what was happening.

            "You will take care of Faramir for me, won't you?" he begged Legolas' back.

            Legolas paused, looked at Michael over his shoulder. He was grinning again, though silvery tears flashed through his dimples and the long supple fingers running through that silky fall of glorious hair were trembling.

            "I'll take good care of him, Michael," said Legolas with a brassy laugh. "I promise."

            "All right," said Michael, mollified, and turned away.   

            Námo took his hand and led him from that place. Soon it began to grow lighter, and the light increased and filled all the air around them. With each step Michael took, he felt the pain and the darkness flee. He felt his tears dry, his fear dissolve, his doubts wash away, until he was filled with an overwhelming joy that buoyed and filled him, and then the darkness completely vanished, and everything became Light.

 

 


End file.
